


Justice is Blind AU

by wintersnight



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: A thing from Tumblr, And are forming the Tim Drake Protection Squad I stg, Blind!Tim au, Clark is actually pretty cool and so is B in this one, Dick and Dami feel like ass about how things went down, Gen, I have no clue what to do about the Titans, I'm kind of just going with it, M/M, The tech is totally made up, batfam, my first Superbats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: Prompt from TItans_R_Us: What if Tim Drake is permanently blinded rather than lose his spleen during the events of the Red Robin series.**On hiatus**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Titans_R_Us](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titans_R_Us/gifts).



> Something a little different.

Getting B back from time, proving his partner, his  _mentor_  was still  _alive_ , pulling him back where he needed to be, was thanks enough for the hell he went through to achieve that goal.

The hug he gets at the top of the Wallstone Apartments the first night B is back in the cowl is just  _that much_  more poignant. It’s the first time he’s been hugged in a while considering how he and Dick left off with the whole  _yeah maybe a trip to Arkham and not to fight crime_  thing (with a little  _you don’t need that tunic anymore, amirite?_  thrown in). He’d been working on his own for a little more than a year and a half before the Batman, the  _OG_ , finally caught up with him.

“I just wanted to say thank-you,” B had blocked his escape, knowing full well what he was trying to do, “for not giving up on me.”

Red laughs a little, a very not funny  _haha_ because of how  _careful_  that tone is, and  _really_ , he’d expected B to keep Damian as his Robin. What other outcome could there have been? It’s fine at this juncture because Damian was apparently right all along, he was just  _riff raff_  playing at being part of the Robin legacy.

The Pretender

The Replacement

Hood apparently had it nailed down too.

And the new net array in his cowl gives him the details when the constantly working radar wave comes back; B is moving closer to him, the sound of his footsteps almost  _silent_  (and is to the mass majority of people, would have  _once upon a time_  been to him too even after all his years as Robin), and Red has barely a moment to take a step  _back_ —

But B already has him held tightly, pulling him against the familiar feel of the Bat symbol on his chest.

And  _God_  does he wants to  _fight_   _it_ , just scrabble and lash out, throw his adopted Father across the roof top, to get  _away_  from this comfort, this meaningful moment that he hasn’t had in _too long_ , has given up on ever having again. It’s a punishment, really, to have this just  _once_  and probably  _never again_.

But he just stays still, not moving until B finally unwinds his arms, and Red can just  _feel_  that chin tipping down and those eyes narrowing behind the whiteouts.

“What happened, Tim?”

His chest lifts in a hard inhale because  _no_ , it doesn’t really  _matter_  now, does it? He’s not a Bat anymore, not since he lost the cape—Damian and Dick made sure he was fully  _aware_.

“Nothing,” he lies easily, already pulling the modified grapple from the back of his utility belt. “I’m glad you’re back to  _you_ , that…that everything is getting back to normal,” and his voice goes a little hoarse, but he just pushes right through it, forcing himself to talk over the sound of his own chest cracking open again for those wounds to  _bleed_ , “and you’ve got a Robin to keep you on the right course, full circle and shit. I’m glad—“

But hands grip his bicep in a hold tight enough that it  _hurts_  even though the armor—the fallback for when one of the Bats was in a panic attack or if the Batman got just  _too much_  worry for one of his own in trouble.

“ _What_   ** _happened_**?” And B’s voice is low, low and small, and very un-Batman like that Red jerks, tries to step  _back_  because, well, World’s Greatest Detective and all, but the hands on his arms aren’t letting him go  _anywhere_.

“It doesn’t matter,” is all he can get out, “you’re back and you’re  _safe_  and you’re Batman again. It doesn’t  _matter_ —”  _because I’m not your responsibility anymore. I’m not a **Bat**  anymore._

“Jesus,  _Tim_ —”

“No, it’s fine. I’m good now,” he keeps himself shock still, carefully tilting his head up so B thinks he’s actually  _looking_.

“I’m calling Dick right now if you don’t start talking to me.”

And the automatic flinch isn’t missed, the dead tone, all of it tells B more than he realistically  _wants_  to, “Dick doesn’t have anything to say, you know.”

“Oh? He won’t tell me why your room is empty,” and  _that_  tone is a whole lot of  _angry Batman_ , one that he really doesn’t need to face right about now. “He won’t talk about  _where_  you were for the last  _year_ while I was gone. Damian won’t either. Want to tell me why?”

“…they don’t  _know_  where I was,” he admits quietly, trying to step back again. “B… _Bruce_. I—“ he turns his head away, sighs deeply, “a lot of things happened, okay? He made Damian his Robin and I left to look for clues you were still alive. That’s it. I…got an apartment in the city and moved most of my things there when the JLA brought back a body in a Batsuit.”

_Lies. He got the apartment after Damian came out in his own version of the Robin tunic—just totally springing it on him, no warning whatsoever. He hadn’t thought Dick could be so fucking cruel until then_.

B is silent for a long moment, barely making a noise (and, at one time, he would have said  _Bat-stillness_  meaning no movement, not even breathing, but with his hearing advanced, he can pick it out).

“You’re coming home with me,” is the no-nonsense command, but in the time he’s been Red Robin,  _Red_ , trying to get himself back on his feet, he hasn’t taken orders from anyone—not even Dick.

“Nope,” he denies gently, “I’m not going back to the Manor.”  _Don’t you **understand** , Drake? I am the blooded son, and the legacy is, always has been,  **mine**. You have no  **place**  here any longer_.

This time, he puts real  _feeling_  into jerking his arm back, lip curling up in an automatic sneer; the old pain should have been worn away by now, should have been easier to deal with—

Apparently not.

“ _Tim_ ,” and B steps right in his path again, blocking him, “Tim—”

“It’s  _better_  this way, okay?” He interrupts loudly, “it’s the way it  _should_  have gone down, B. Damian was  _right_ , Jason was  _right_ , and I never—” he shuts himself up before he says something even more  _damaging_ , but  _dammit_ , he’s always been able to tell Bruce anything and he’s  _back now_. All of it hurt for so long, holding it all  _in_ , but… but things are different now, aren’t they?

He fires the grapple to shut himself up, first finger out to the line of raised dots, allowing him to count how many feet go out until the grapple hooks tight.

“But thank-you,” is hoarse until the thing catches on something substantial to hold his weight, “for  _everything_ , Bruce.”

And a press of a button jerks him away from the Dark Knight who is yelling into the darkness after him.

**

And he’s  _fine_. It’s not like he’s missing a limb or something, but in some ways, this is probably  _worse_.

Months ago, in the deserts of Iraq, the attack by the Wanderer left him in the hand of the League of Assassins.

“Timothy,” is a familiar voice when all he can see is  _darkness_.

“Ra’s?” And he feels like absolute  _ass_. Fighting bad guys in the desert on the hunt for clues Bruce is still  _alive_  (and you Dick can get  _fucked_ , seriously).

“Do not panic, Detective. You are currently in the heart of the Cradle.”

Still, complete  _dark_.

“What happened?” He asks instantly before the realization sets in because the last thing he remembers is seeing that glowing, fiery blade coming right at his face.

And then nothing.

He flinches, his skin tingling because he can  _feel_  Ra’s hand getting closer to his own, and those cold fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Red turns his head toward the direction where he  _knows_  Ra’s is standing and with a whole bunch of ninjas at his back, but still, not even a  _hint_  of light.

“I’m afraid your eyes have been… _damaged_.”

And  _no,_  he’s not feeling panic rise because, well,  _League of Assassins and shit_ , but because Ra’s al Ghul never,  _ever_  sounds… hesitant.

The sinking feeling isn’t getting any better.

**

Permanent blindness is better than other alternatives. You know, like  _dead_.

He had taken time to acclimate, re-train himself. Hell, he even vanished to find Shiva for a week of  _owfuck_  to get himself somewhat ready to take on the League’s mortal enemies, the Council of Spiders. Within the four weeks it took him to get accustomed to using his other enhanced senses, Ra’s had already argued with his own people that  _regardless_  of his new ‘handicap,’ the Detective is an exceptional specimen.

The crux, though, is how Ra’s didn’t expect him to be able to beat the Council as he is now as well as take down the League’s systems completely. But, well,  _Bat_ , and very few things can hold down a Bat.

Take into account that he’s developed a synthetic radar system for the cowl; a little something inspired by Daredevil and Marvel comics. Only his version works in  _real life_.

The aftermath, however, being kicked out a window, of Dick in the cowl saving his ass from death by pavement, hadn’t been part of the  _plan_. He was under the impression Dick agreed with Damian, the former third Robin had played his part, done his duty, and it was time for him to be  _out_. Coming to with the sounds of bats in his ears and an achingly familiar cold, dampness seeping into his bones had been a pretty fucked up  _surprise_.

Luckily, no one else had been down in the Cave while he fumbled off the gurney, panicked still, only blind for a few weeks and without his developed tech to give him awareness of his surroundings. Still, he’d managed to find the suit close enough on a medical table and get it on, almost  _running_  to get to some kind of vehicle before anyone could see him, could tell him to  _GTFO_.

Nope, he didn’t need Alfred to have to be the one.

The radar net in his cowl was slightly damaged during the fight with Ra’s (who’s an  _asshole_  because now he  _knows_  where the weaknesses are, but still, WE is in his hands and he’s emancipated, so no need to be under Dick’s thumb, making things that much _worse_ ), so getting to and on the spare Ducati is a righteous  _pain in the ass_.

“Tim? Timmy?!” He heard the call echoed back, Dick’s voice making his chest go dangerously  _tight_ , but he fires the Ducati and takes off into the night.

From then on, he’s hit Gotham running, making sure never to stay after a fight, never to let the Bats get close enough to tell he’s a different man now, keep the comm on mute, make sure they don’t find  _you_. He dodges every attempt of the new Batman and his team to  _talk_  and instead goes back to the task at hand, finding the real Batman, proving to everyone (except the Titans who, you know, believe in him) that he isn’t crazy.

**

Bruce isn’t someone who  _gives up_  once he’s been told  _no_.

Ask Alfred, he’ll vouch and probably get into a  _storytelling_  mood.

And he very pointedly pulls the feed of the rooftop meeting with Red Robin so Dick and Damian can watch after patrol the same evening.

Dick spots it immediately, something very  _not right_  in the way Tim moves, the way he tenses, the way he  _tracks_. Damian stares with arms crossed over his chest, feigning boredom, but quirks a brow when Drake claims, “ _Damian is right, Jason is right”_  and wonders what he had indeed been correct about.

And after a few months of his two sons dancing around the “what happened with Tim?” question, they finally give B the down and dirty deets.

“At the time,” Damian admits slowly, “I was…cruel, Father. I cannot explain why, for there are multiple reasons. Suffice to say, I told Drake on numerous occasions he no longer belonged in the Manor, and the legacy of Robin belonged to me as my birthright. I also made attempts to cause him harm, of which he had no other alternative except to defend himself,” and he remembers almost shoring through Drake’s grapple with shame.  The vigilante, his  _predecessor,_ the adopted brother that  _saved_  Father, brought him  _back_ , was right all along, proved himself to be the real  _“true son.”_

Damian has had time to come to grips with the iniquitous nature of his actions. Perhaps, if Father could convince Drake to indeed  _come back_ , he could have the  _time_  to try making amends, to show him gratitude for returning his Father, for  _never giving up_ , for being the better Robin.

That is, if Drake would even allow him the opportunity.

Dick, arms tight around himself, sighs with genuine exhaustion, and B feels a pang of guilt for the burdens he’d put on his oldest son. It hurts even more when Dick starts talking, spilling the words out as fast as he can, trying to get the worst over with as quickly as possible—the same tendency from his boyhood.

“I did it wrong,” the eldest admits without hesitation, “I made the right choices for the right  _reasons_. Dami needed the tunic, and Tim…Tim didn’t need me as a mentor the way Dami did,” and he completely ignores the chuff from the ten-year-old because  _they both know it’s true_ , “but I tried to convince him to get professional help when he thought you were alive. I thought…I thought he might be having a breakdown. All those deaths, and then you, too? I couldn’t see past everything else to even consider he might be right. To make it worse, I just gave Dami a new Robin costume without telling Tim until the last minute. He…he had to find out the hard way.”

And it haunts him, the way Tim Drake had said on the recorded feed  _Jason was right_  because Dick is well-aware of the Red Hood’s grudge against the boy that took up the mantle after him—the boy he claimed was only a  _replacement_ , never a real part of the family, just a stand-in until the next Robin came.

Tim hadn’t believed Jason’s bullshit before now (or had he?), and Dick takes the blame for it directly on his shoulders.

After the two of them have said their pieces, B sends them upstairs for the night and hits up the showers, grabs a cup of coffee, and starts doing research.

**

Red hasn’t seen the Titans since the whole  _come to Gotham and save some nice people, do me a solid here_ , debacle. Sure, Kon has texted and called, hoping for a break in the vigilante’s schedule, but Red…can’t face them yet, not without necessity riding him.

And it sucks, to keep moving on his own, to keep figuring out new ways to fight the same kind of criminals he always has, how to keep one step ahead of the game.

It’s been hard (like, when has it ever _not_ been), but like he did the first time around, when he was  _that_  kind of Robin, he’s going to do what he needs to do, he’s  _not going to give up._ Living some  _normal_  life as a blind person isn’t an option (well, the  _blind_  thing, yes, but the normal person,  _nope_ ), so he keeps moving, keeps creating, burns the shit out of himself when he attempts to make something that will allow him to hack again, a pad with grooves that shift as the web page does. Next is to figure out DOS.

So when he’s not on the move, when he needs to  _hide_ , he goes back to the Perch in Gotham, down under the first floor into the basement with his workshop, set-up right after he bought the place and started moving things in, setting everything up to be a proverbial HQ before he went off to Europe in hopes of finding clues his mentor ( _father_ ) was still alive. It had been a good idea to get a place away from the Manor, the Cave, away from all things Wayne and Bat since he wasn’t Robin anymore, couldn’t depend on their tolerance of him in their home.

It all worked out just fine anyway.

The Gotham Perch was mostly self-sustaining, nothing to trigger indications of his presence unless he was upstairs working rather than down here. The cot in the corner (exactly seven steps from his work bench) is plenty for when he can’t possibly work anymore.

While he’s treating another burn from using a soldering tool, his phone rings again, and he feels the vibrations through his workbench.

“Call from  _Clone Boy_.”

“Ignore,” he responds, trying to wrap the bandages around his palm where it hurts like hell.

“Text received.”

He sighs, “read it.”

“ _Dude. Nightwing and Batman are tearing shit up looking for you. They’ve been to the Tower three times in the last week alone. Maybe you should come out of fucking exile and talk to someone. Like me, you asshole.”_

“Compose text,” he replies, and the phone gives a chime. “If they need intel, they know my email. Don’t worry about it, probably just some data or analysis. You know, Bats and shit. Send.”

Another chime, just pitched slightly higher.

He goes back to work, determined to make the tools he’s going to need to really get his game back.

**

But the Bats don’t need intel, don’t need a detective, don’t need a  _replacement_. Whatever they  _want_  is apparently important because they’ve got O looking for any trace of him over every feed she can access, and continually trying to hack his phone for his location. The thing rings over and over from Dick’s number ( _dammit Kon, you **had** to give him the new digits?_ ), only one message left in all those instances: “Tim.  _Call me_  or I’m going to kick up the search a notch.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes off, goes out of Gotham for a few days to have some levity time, test out his gadgets. The radar pulses eliminate the need for a cane (bonus) and give him a pretty good idea of perception—as in, how far his punches and kick should reach so he knocks someone  _out_  rather than kills them—so far, so good. The ‘hack pad’ as he’s come to call it is also a definite  _win_  for the home team. He can reach over and feel the screen in front of him shifting, the pad forming braille under his fingers.

But it’s not until he’s back on the streets, going back to his roots for the hundredth time since he was blinded, that someone gets him with a crowbar across the cowl, knocking the radar out and almost taking him down for the count in the process. He gives a good punch back before dropping to his knees at the wave of nausea hitting, making him gag for a moment, bo in hand, sweeping out to find obstacles, get his directional bearings, and make sure the baddies are down for the count.

He fumbles in his utility belt for a moment, looking for modified zip ties when the nearly-silent sound of shadows spreading catches his attention, and Red is up on his feet, fighting the waves of sickness threatening, the push of unconsciousness.

“Nice job, Baby Bird,” N’s voice is warm and affections, and who knows why the  _fuck_  that is.

Instead of replying, he snarls, upper lip curling in a sneer; he already has his modified grapple, ready to  _fly_ —

“Please  _wait_ ,” and the edge of desperation to N’s voice makes him back right up against the alleyway wall, free hand automatically slapping on it, grounding himself, getting his footing again. “God,  _Tim_ , please just—just  _five minutes_ , that’s all I’m asking.”

And because he feels like  _ass_  right about now since—

_X_

—Xavier is going to be a fucking  _awful_  companion for the next forty-eight hours, he just  _breaks_  a little.

“What the fuck do you  _want_?” Is tired, a weariness that goes down to the  _soul_. “Am I supposed to be out of Gotham, too? Just out of the Bats, out of the Manor not  _good enough_  for you or your partner? Fucking  _fine_ , just  _fine_ , give me forty-eight hours and I’ll be—“

But the concussion, lack of sleep, malfunctioning radar array, all of it gives N the perfect chance to get way too close for comfort—and he doesn’t feel the heat of Dick’s body through the Nightwing suit, hear the silent steps, the soft snaps of interrupted air signaling movement until it’s too late to  _run_.

He fired the grapple as his knees give out, just in time for N to catch him in one arm, wrestle the grapple out of his hand to retract it.

“You’re hurt,” N is saying against his temple, “so, lemme just get you somewhere safe and we can talk, Timmy. Just talk.”

“Nothing to  _say_ ,” he replies with conviction, swallowing back a mouthful of bile. “And no, I’ve got my own back now, thanks. Tell me what the hell you want so I can be on my way.” He pushes, both palms against Dick’s chest, making the older vigilante take a step  _back_.

The hurt noise coming from deep in N’s chest is really just not his  _fucking concern_.

“Timmy,” is breathed out, not like the last time when they were arguing about Tim getting, you know,  _fired_  when Dick was beyond  _done_  with him, only talking to him with exasperation and annoyance. And yeah, oh yeah he  _remembers_.

“Five minutes, remember? I have bad guys to tie up.”

He feels Dick moving, choosing to stay right where he is so he doesn’t just hurl everywhere. Xavier needs a minute to  _calm it the fuck down_.

“Damian and I—“

_Well that’s not a good start_.

“—we’d like it if you came to the Manor.”

He straightens, biting out a “ _for what?”_ while a litany of escaped bad guys passes through his brain pan.

N finishes fast, probably still fresh with patrol only a few hours in, “for dinner,” he responds softly.

“Why the  _fuck_ —“ is what he starts to say, thinking something along the lines of  _why the fuck would you **do**  that to me? _Just, you know, taunt him a little with the place he _used_ to call home,but Red straightens too fast and the blood throbs in his head, drowning out everything else while his knees buckle, and he’s—

Out.

**

Coming to with bats echoing in his ears (yet  _again_ ) causes the same kind of  _utter fucking panic_  it did the time before this.

There’s a whole lot of cranial  _owfuck_  this time as he jerks to awareness, throwing himself up on the medical gurney, hands already going for his face even as he registers air ruffling his hair. A bandage is around his forehead, tape at his temple, stitches at the back of his skull, neat enough to be Alfred’s.

Fuck.

His chest is bare, but he still has the Red Robin tights and boot, gloves and gauntlets also missing. He swings his legs around, hand already outstretched, looking for something,  _anything_ —

Round, metal.

Bo. The specially made one.

Perfect.

A flick of his wrist and it extends out. Throwing his legs over the side of the gurney—

Footsteps make him freeze for literally a second and then  _move_  because he’s  _fast_ ,

Batman, however, is  _faster_.

Hands on his shoulders, turning him, making him dizzier, throwing off his directional sense without the radar array plus riding a righteous concussion, and B is gripping his biceps tight enough to  _fucking hurt_.

“Tim,” comes out hoarse and deep, from far down in B’s chest.

“Bruce,” he responds dully, already pretty sure what’s going to happen here. “At least let me get suited up, then I’ll be out of your Cave—“  _out of your city_.

One hand comes off his bicep and tilts his face  _up_. Ah, well, there’s  _that_  too.

He feels the disruption in the air by his face as gloved fingers wave a few inches from his eyes ( _c’mon, really now?_ ) and reaches up to snatch at B’s gloved hand.

“Your  _eyes_. Tim, my  _God_ —“

“Yeah, I know.” And he did. Ra’s told him not long after he came to in darkness, his eye color was a faded, washed thing, pale with pupils that didn’t dilate anymore.

He feels B’s chest stutter and the hand in his grip moves gently, slowly, the palm of the glove leathery against the side of his face and whatever scars might be there from the initial blinding. He’s not really sure, hadn’t thought to ask, and sure as hell hadn’t touched his eyes since that first day in the dark.

“When?” And just because he can  _hear it_ , the thick, watery quality of B’s normally smooth tone when he’s not normally surrounded by the criminal element, his own eyes begin to sting and heat.

He swallows hard because B doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t need to know the  _truth_. “Bruce—“

“Tell me, Tim.”

And something wet drips on his nose, sliding down the bridge, and he lets out a shaky breath because B  _already suspects_ , so anything less would just be insulting.

Lowering his head so B doesn’t have to look into his dead eyes when he drops the proverbial bomb, the words come haltingly, painfully drug out of some deep, dark place twisting in his soul—the place where things he  _mourns_  are put until he actually has the time to give in, to scream, to punch and kick and  _bleed_.

“Iraq,” and he has to swallow to make his voice stop breaking, “I went to—to find a cave where there was a sign, proof you were alive. I was ambushed by someone named the Widower, a member of the Council of Spiders.”

He expects Bruce to choke out an apology, an ‘I’m so sorry that happened’ because he’s Batman, and he’d never want anything bad to happen to his (former) Robins (even those that never should have  _been,_ right Dami?).

What he doesn’t expect is for Bruce to just grip him, pull him into a hard, inescapable embrace while the older vigilante breaks down and fucking  _cries_. He cries like he has to relive his parents’ death all over again. Like he has to bury Jason Todd, his  _partner_  and friend, in the cold, unforgiving earth. He cries like he’s in real  _pain_.

And Tim, Red, stands there, every muscle shaking uncontrollably, head aching because Xavier just need to be  _less_  of a pain in the  _ass_ , riding the ‘that’s an owfuck from a few days ago’ train, and… being held on his feet by unbreakable hold, depending on someone else’s strength.

And the cut of too-long hair at the right side of his head is damp, Bruce’s hand grips the back of his neck  _tight,_  the other around his back to desperately  _hold on_.

“I missed you, Tim, I  _missed_  you. I’m so, so sorry this happened. I’m sorry it happened because of me. Tim, I’m  _sorry_ —“ is the litany wept against his hair and face.

He babbles back the usual, “not your fault, you idiot. Seriously, you were lost  _in time_ , how is it your fault? It is what it is. I’m dealing with it, I’m  _alive_  right now.”

And B just keeps talking, keep listening while he lifts one of his Robins up against the Bat-symbol on his chest and sits himself on the abandoned gurney with Tim held tight in his lap. He notices when the face tilts down purposely or moves to the side, Tim trying to spare him from looking.

But B does, he stares into the washed-out violet-blue that used to be expressive, used to be vibrantly colorful. There are a few scars below each eye, some to the sides, one across the bridge of his nose, and of course, once they calm down, once Tim can breathe a little and eat and the concussion is gone, they can ask the more in-depth questions, get an idea how the injury was made, try anything and everything to counteract the effects, to give him his sight back.

It’s a futile hope, but one B can’t release until he’s exhausted all options.

And in the niche above the walkway down to the Cave, a divet in the outcropping of rock is Damian’s proverbial  _safe place_. At times he will bring a book and snacks, perhaps just his iPod for musical distraction, sometimes his wrist computer to watch Netflix.

When Grayson came to the Cave, carrying an unconscious and injured Red Robin on the front of his Ducati, Damian held on to the fervent  _hope_  that things could be  _different_  this time. He was not wavering between his old life and new any longer, and perhaps, if Drake would only  _give them a chance_ —

Father had sent him back from patrol two hours before, an order to complete his homework and go to bed for school the next day; the Batman still out when Grayson pulled up, Alfred already taking the limp body from him with certain hands. He had thrown himself in with them, already prepping the gurney, preparing gloves for Pennyworth, tying his apron around his back while the butler scrubbed up. Of course, it had taken the three of them some time to find the hidden catches and traps to check the blood flow from the back of Drake’s skull; however, no gray matter, no cerebral fluid, a bad knock and nothing more. The eldest of the Bats had begun a rudimentary testing, blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, pupil dilation, the usual.

Whatever he had found during the exam, gave him pause enough that Grayson demanded to know  _what is it?_

“Master Damian, to bed. You have school in the morning. Master Dick, shower and eat.”

“Alfred—!”

“ ** _Dick_** ,” and both vigilantes had flinched back, away from the warning in that tone.

Damian finally gave in, returning to the Manor to hurry through his assignments while Grayson angrily did the same. His niche, however, was accessible through a vent, and thus he was in place by the time the Batmobile returned home for the night and Father dove out of it, throwing his cowl off, eyes all for the full medical gurney in the corner.

Once Drake returned to consciousness and the youngest Bat overheard their conversation, understood what had happened,  _why_  and  _where_ , his chest seizes, and his eyes get  _hot_  and damp. Both hands jammed over his mouth, Damian Wayne  _cannot stop_  the stream of tears filling and spilling over when all those implications _hit_.

_Iraq, blinded while looking for Father, trying to return him **home**_.  _Blinded and still warring with the League of Assassins’ most deadly of foes. Refusing to burden anyone with this knowledge as the Titans would have_ at least  _told him if they’d have known._

And just as Father cries, so does he, a terrible feeling of pain and regret, that he had  _scorned_  this young man, had been crucial in seeing him  _gone_ without bothering to look for his  _worth_. Damian holds his hands over his mouth while his chest stutters on choked breaths.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red ducks the little talk with B and just runs into some nice ninjas out for a stroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slightly different than the one on Tumblr (because I wasn't very satisfied with it- still not but okay it'll work), so I hope it reads better. Ah, please be kind, I'm kind of just going with this idea, lol

He isn’t screaming.

But it’s a  _close_  thing.

Immortal, obsessive bad guys are really just a  _righteous_  pain in the ass.

Red’s back arches in abject  _agony_ , gritting his teeth so hard he’s going to break one eventually, and the incessant  _pounding_  noise echoing in a psychotic, echoing  _loop_  from all sides brings him just a step closer to losing his  _fucking mind_.

It’s a small catch in the track, an undertone hidden so well, he almost,  _almost_ misses it. The subliminal message buried among the madness:

_Give in_

_Give. **In.**_

Get.

Fucked.

Ra’s.

_Seriously_.

Without the cowl, though, he’s going to have it rough; the constant noise throwing him off hard enough for bile to burn at the back of his throat every few minutes.

He twists a wrist in the manacles, but can’t hit the right trigger to release the lock picks or blast pellets. His harness and utility belt are gone, and the sounds abruptly change to something more high-pitched, something that makes his _spine ache_ , and  _fuck,_  just  _kill him now_.

He shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked to avoid Dick and Damian, should have stayed at the Manor for more than a few hours once he told Bruce the truth. If he’d been closer to functioning at 100%, the cowl’s radar array repaired, and one less concussion, the ninjas probably wouldn’t have gotten the drop on him.

Welp, now’s the time to think sneaking out of the Cave while Bruce was changing out of the Batsuit as a really  _terrible_  plan.

_Give in_

_Give. **In**._

Not fucking likely.

**

Ra’s al Ghul, however, cannot find it within himself to stay  _away_. His previous fascinations pale in comparison to  _this_ , watching the Detective fight against the assault to his most powerful sense, attempt to regain his control, his equilibrium, to continue to surpass all  _expectations_. And Ra’s should be watching the live feed from his throne room rather than plug his own ears and be  _here_  close enough to reach  _out_.

Eight hundred years has taught him patience, and yet—

Just the tips of his fingers slide over the Detective’s hair, a ghost of a touch.  The next is feather light, a swipe under one eye in a  _barely-there_  motion, enough for the struggling vigilante to jerk, to try gauging where an attack might come from. It is a  _reminder_  as to  _why_  he is here, why  _they_  are here.

Timothy Jackson Drake would have to be  _tested_  thoroughly for the League of Assassins to accept him as Heir Apparent to the Demon’s Head. And there would be  _many_  for the Detective; trials to test his strength, speed, skills, and stamina. His endurance. His ruthlessness. It would be the beginning on the long path of verification, to validate Timothy Drake as _worthy_ regardless of this handicap.

Of course, Ra’s al Ghul had not come to this decision  _lightly_. In fact, once Red Robin returned to the roster of vigilantes, word spread to the League of Assassins’ information network, rumors he initially laughed off—he killed the Red Robin, a name worn by all the Batman’s birds. But, the first sightings were reported to him personally, photographic evidence of a young man in a slouched hooded sweatshirt and dark sunglasses.

The Detective _alive_.

Unfortunate, but the brunt of his  _displeasure_  was wrought upon the messengers; other than listening to another of Talia’s tirade, it had been exceptionally worth it.

The upstart was supposed to be  _dead_ , a forgotten, broken thing in the streets of Gotham City; his survival against the skill of Ra’s himself, a  _game_  played between them unerringly won, was un _heard_  of. The enemies of the League of Assassins do not live to regret their trespasses, and the exceptions to this rule are  _few_.

Those few, however, are rather exceptional specimens—ones who  _could_  be his successor.

By the time Red Robin re-emerged in Gotham City, sited by his spies, the notion had been planted, a seed of possibility grown into  _vines_. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, would never  _break_. He would stay the path of the Bat until his last breath, but Timothy Drake had proven  _viable_. If any of them were unstable, enough to possibly be turned, it would be the abandoned sons—Jason Todd or Tim Drake. As he already had his  _opportunity_  with Todd, the next of the Batman’s successors, the brilliant Detective, would be the next practical candidate.  

Even now as Ra’s watches, stares into those pale, useless eyes, he can see the thoughts calculating, churning. Yes, the Detective could be made  _better_ , already possessed the raw talents needed.

He would be tested—until he  _broke_  and then could be remade.

_Let the game begin_.

And he smiles to himself as he steps back into the darkness, watching.

**

Another change, another round of agony, pulling uselessly at the set of manacles around his ankles and thighs.

He has no idea how long he’s been there, time slipping away—

But Shiva had pointedly reminded him of training with the armless master, while carelessly beating the absolute  _shit_  out of him Day 1 to make sure he  _got the message_ (next time, air mail, broken  _everything_ sucks). He’s pretty sure blood is everywhere when she knelt by him, shook her head, and called him a _little bird_ , like the very first time they met. She must have been feeling _nostalgic_ or something, but the lesson still had _weight_ , merit. When all he wanted to do was figure out if he could still be a vigilante, if he could have even a _third_ of what he had, Shiva was there to break his face open because _how dare that even be a question?_

Right. Sorry for being an asshole. _Owfuck_.

She was right though, losing his sight hadn’t changed _him_ , just the way he had to do things, and no one—not even the possibly-alive Bruce could have made him realize it any clearer than that. She beat the lesson into him, and dammit, _yes_ , he’s grateful. At the end of the day, everyone is handicapped in in some way, but only a master can  _choose_  that weakness. She made him understand his weakness didn’t have to be his eyes.

By the time she threw him out of her loft in Beijing and told him to go the hell home, he would swear she was smiling. But, well, if anything, Shiva didn’t let anyone overstay their welcome. Once the lesson, the technique is _learned_ GTFO.

Welp, time to take  _that_  little PSA to heart, thanks, totally giving you a bro fist next time we chill out.

He’s been running back in the vigilante game ever since.

So he forces himself to  _adapt_ , calculate the changes, and can concentrate enough to finally get the last  _fucking resort_  out of the seam of his under suit, lining up along his forearm, a thin metal rod that isn’t really  _the best_  thing for picking cuffs, but, you know, better than nothing (and _yes_ , it might be the only thing he carries from the original Robin suit, but it had its _uses_ ).

He almost drops the damn thing— _twice_. His hands are shaking and lock picking is delicate work (in most cases, increased sensitivity in his fingertips is  _stellar_ ), but the cuff does finally pop free and he can reactivate the gauntlets with a deep breath—two disruptors spit out into his palm and he throws without moving for a nice long thirty-eight seconds or so, just gives himself some time to enjoy  _silence_  when the disruptors kill the sound board and whatever else made the room vibrate around him to throw him off more.

Next, tech. The back of the right boot has enough pieces to assemble an emergency bo, smaller than his standard. Left boot, four patches, one for each extremity under the uniform. They give a low-grade pulse when moving targets are scanned. The pulses speed up and slow depending on proximity. You know, things to make fighting without the radar array that much  _easier_. Just a few hundred ninjas—kind of like a tough Wednesday.

The room leads into a narrow corridor, and if he takes any past encounters with Ra’s al Ghul into accounts, all roads lead to  _trap_.

He strafes to the right, bo raise to run along the vent line, to place possible escape routes. Other hand skims, searching for iStar panels, card key panels, just something he could  _hack_.

The nearly soundless footsteps answer  _that_  question. Seven from what he can tell, so someone apparently knows he’s  _out_  (disruptors probably took out cameras in the room anyway).

A dip in the wall is  _finally_  a doorway, giving him room to duck, place the muffled noises. The corridor has a curve at the end, lets out into a bigger room—possibly a control/throne room or an underground hangar (knowing Ra’s of course).  But when it’s time to strike, he clears everything, empties out expectation and ego and fear—he becomes his senses, trusts them to put him right where he needs to be. He trusts the instincts he honed as _that_ kind of Robin.

And he moves like water and wind, a seemingly endless wave, using the bo to propel him into the thick, taking out two in a breath, a half whirl of the bo, using the momentum to leap and spin, extend the bo like an extension of his own arm to take out a two more, keep the swing to place where the others are. In the landing, he moves with an elbow to the face, corresponding shin kick, blood flying past his face with a molar at the tail end.

Heel kick back and sharp (that’s going to hurt in the morning. Not sorry about it).

A right-handed palm strike at him, the waves of air by his face shifting, showing him which way to dodge. Too close, get your fucking  _head_  in it, Red.

He jumps, rebounds off the wall, gets some power behind the roundhouse. Last one gives up the  _deets_  on where his gear has been taken. Then, well, it’s  _nap time_.

Red runs the bo up the wall again looking for—

_Jackpot_

The vent is just an inth too small, but without the harness and utility belt, he manages. Absurdly, he’s glad he was good over the holiday season. He can totally still squeeze into small places.

He pulls himself along more than crawls, the sounds of training ( _ze! HUUAH!_ ) from the right, heavier machinery from the left (hangar, something  _big_  is flying the fuck in), and when the right holds a nice calm sound of softly running hard drives does he grin and quietly pull the vent cover.

No breathing, no creaking chairs, no scent of old blood and dirt,  _score_.

Dropping down is a terror even though he has the bo below his feet to calculate jumps; as usual, his brain rolls with it, configures his stance. He follows the noise to the loudest (reads as  _oldest_  or  _most overworked_  i.e. a lot of data) server and luckily has the hack pad still.

With a grin, Red cracks his knuckles, wondering if Ra’s is a fan of prime-time television.

**

Monitors all over the Cradle turn to static.

_The Hunt for Sasquatch_  takes up every screen.

**

Twenty feet down and five more ninjas _later_ , he gets to the armaments room where his utility belt, cowl, and harness are hopefully waiting.

Hacking the keypad takes a minute and a half longer than expected (and  _sincerely_  pisses him  _off_ ). He literally finds out why when the door starts to open.

Well, you know, _trap_.

And the sounds of  _fight in progress, please take a number to the brawl_  calculates fast: the hiss of swords and bos foremost; meaty punches from fists and kicks overly loud. He gets pulled into the fray with a group coming up the corridor behind him, and the fight takes them inside, Red listening for acoustics, size, and possible obstacles, anything in the room he can use or be used against him.

When the crash of expensive glass signals  _throne room_ , he grits his teeth (because of  _this_  fuckery) and makes the next dodge, the next punch, the next knock out, he moves like he’s against Shiva, against King Snake, against the Iron Fist; he adapts fast, bo pinging off an embedded hand rail he uses to leap, uses to kick and disarm. He gets knocked into what’s apparently Ra’s private system, monitors shattering under his back, and  _owfuck_ , that’s the tower. He bets the damn thing has Windows 96 or something  _equally_  as horrific.

He’s up, bo extended when the too familiar sound of an  _epic_  spinning back kick is his undoing. A meaty thump in his chest is  _fucking shit_  because he hasn’t even been close since the whole  _nah, I don’t need that cape, thanks anyway_ , debacle (catching unconscious Red Robins notwithstanding).

“Oh my  _God,_ Tim?!”

_Fuck_.

His body stutters to an abrupt  _halt_ , turning useless eyes in the direction of—

The approaching ninja from behind him gets a  _once-in-a-lifetime_  ass kicking, just so he can completely  _forget_  he heard Nightwing from somewhere across the room.

The second voice, though, that one makes the muscles in his arms and legs  _twinge_.

“ _Down!”_

He ducks with it, the wind of a body flying over him: short, light. Robin’s boot takes out a jaw, probably with a load of righteous indignation.

He doesn’t spare time for a  _thanks, but don’t eviscerate me;_ instead, he gets up and  _moves_ , throwing himself back into the fray because, well,  _Bats_  apparently. Getting out would be better sooner rather than later.

And he gets lost in the rhythm of moving, of planning, of listening, of placing, of vibrations on his wrists and ankles, of the bo hitting something solid, of planning around obstacles; before he realizes it, before he’s  _ready_ , his last backhand leads to quiet, just two other panting breaths and a whole lot of  _unconscious_. It’s a nice enough sound that he leans an elbow on the bo to  _breathe_  for  _this_  little thing.

No sign of his gear. Fucking  _Ra’s_.

“Tim.”

The Nightwing boots make a specific sound, probably because of the extra weight in the sole; you know, makes those stunning spinning back kicks just that much more  _in your face_. But the fast approaching  _vigilante_  alert makes him straighten, wary since  _not really good here_.

He just holds up the free hand, “mine are down,” and it  _is_  fine, now that the torture is done, some ninjas stomped, he’s good. Really. Well, maybe hand Ra’s a little vigilante  _ass beating_  because  _what a complete dick_. “Anyone find my utility belt? That would be  _stellar_  at this juncture.”

And like he expects a punch to the face, he flinches when gloved fingers press against his jaw, tilting his dead eyes up, and Nightwing  _chokes,_ a sick noise.

“Your  _eyes_.”

Yup. Thanks for the news flash.

“Oh my God,  _oh my God_ , Tim, you’re—”

“Pretty much,” he supplies, gingerly pulling back, but N’s hands tighten down, and he  _knows_  the older vigilante is staring down at him, probably in shock.  And he doesn’t realistically give a damn what face his former mentor, friend, brother might be making, but he’s been gone long enough that the blinders are off. His former hero-worship of all things Dick Grayson? Yeah, not anymore.

His five-year-old self would be just so fucking disappointed.

“I — Tim,  _when_. What…How? Dammit, I’m sorry, but —”

“It’s fine,” he deadpans. “It’s been over a year.”

“Tim,” and it’s softer, easier on his throbbing head, “did…did Ra’s—?”

“Of course not,” he tries to swallow, to _breathe_ , “it’s my own fault. The being blind thing.”

“Why don’t you fill me in on some of those _deets?_ ” But N sounds… _rough_. Well, it’s been a hard year for everyone, hasn’t it?

“How about after the Vigilante Anonymous meeting when we break for punch?”

“Smart ass. Now is not the time for witty banter. The bad guys are unconscious anyway,” N scolds lightly and breathes out, heavy in the quiet of the room. “So, when you were in Gotham, stopping those ninjas—?”

“Yes,” is enough to answer _that_. Yes, I was kicking enough ass you didn’t _realize_ , and I’m _sure as fuck_ not giving up another cape, Dick. Not. Happening.

But Nightwing just kind of blanks out a little, staring at those _eyes_ through the whiteouts while the knot of tension in his chest gets _tighter_ than when B told them they were going into the League of Assassins’ home turf... to rescue Red Robin.

B hadn’t told him the whole truth of it, waited for him to find out on his own:

Blind. Timmy is _blind_.

And even though it isn’t the time (horrible bad guys, you know), he can do little to stop the heat in his eyes, the agony abrupt and acidic in his chest. He takes in the pale violet-blue, a sheen over the previous startling color, but the gaze remains blank, doesn’t sharpen like it used to.

“Stop it,” Red’s face isn’t tilted at the right angle, just slightly off, empty eyes staring blankly over N’s shoulder.

The laugh coming out of N is a half-sob, and he can’t even _stop_ himself, gripping Tim hard, pulling right into his chest, because the instinct hasn’t fading, was never  _truly_  gone. The one that always nudged him to be more affectionate, more protective than he was with Jason; considering Tim’s past, his absentee parents, well, it was really  _obvious_  how much the third Robin needed it.

Regardless of whether Red wants it or not, he’s getting it right now because Nightwing’s chest stutters hard (and  _look at how much he’d_ **missed,** what he let  _happen_ ), and the fine tremble works its way through. All the old recriminations come back to haunt him and there isn’t anything about this he can fight or out-think; this isn’t a bout of Joker venom or fear gas, it’s not torn skin that could be sewn to heal and scar, another mark in the fight against the baddies. It’s not even a broken back that can heal and support weight, that can fight again. 

This is a lot more  _fail_  than that. A year, blind, and without a safety net. No Titans to back him up, no using WE resources so Tim Drake wouldn’t be outed unless he chose to be.

And N just _breaks_ a little, hands and arms too tight, biting his lower lip as his cheek pressed against the side of Tim’s face gets wet because _how could he have let his partner, his friend, his brother go out **alone**? Why hadn’t he at least given Tim time to explain, give his evidence? Why didn’t he have a little bit of **faith**?_

“Timmy,” is wavery, wobbly, wet, and the older vigilante shudders against him, “oh my _God_ , Timmy.”

The younger sighs, fists clenched hard by his sides.

“I’m sorry,” Nightwing chokes out, “I’m so sorry.”

For a second, _just a second,_ he thinks of how _long_ he’s wanted to hear that.

_“I’m sorry it went down that way, Tim. I’m just so sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry I didn’t take you_ seriously _about B. I shouldn’t have thought you were having a breakdown. I should have given you ten more minutes—”_

_“I’m sorry I just let you_ go. _”_

And yeah, any or all of those would have done fucking _wonders_ a little more than a year ago when he was at the lowest, throwing and breaking every goddamned thing he could get his hands on, screaming in his hidden workshop below the Perch because _how the fuck was he going to keep going—_

But, he’d already picked himself up, dusted himself off, made _plans_ to keep moving. He was long past needing _this,_ wanting, hoping, waiting. He’d already started moving on, separating himself from them, and this new obstacle? Wasn’t going to be the clincher to bring them back. They either wanted him for _him_ or not at all, being blind isn’t a good enough reason to say ‘fuck it all’ on either side.

He already knew that. It’s why he didn’t bother telling Dick in the first place.

So, in the end, Red sighs because he can’t do it. He just doesn’t have the strength for _this_. Firmly, he pushes N back a step, gets enough room to breathe.

“Like I said, it’s _fine_ ,” and yeah, guy that lies to  _Batman_  because almost  _nothing_  about this situation is really  _fine_  right now. But he takes another step back,  _away_  (body is two more steps to his slight right, dodge that shit) to give them distance, showing the separation when the shifting of boots is Robin, smaller, lighter, the weight in his boots a different alloy. “You two do your thing. Ra’s has my tech and I’m getting it back.”

N swipes a forearm over his face, mouth open to  _immediately_ argue even if he feels like he’s deep in Gotham Harbor like that time with Two-Face and a whole lot of _hard to pick a lock with broken fingers_ , starting to drown, unable to get a hand free to claw at the water, the freezing cold starting to permeate every cell, numbing all the nerve endings.

Robin beats him to it before Red can turn, “the Batplane is located out the south-west corridor. It is prepared should you have sustained any injuries, Red.”

And he can’t help it, the _say what now?_ on his face when Robin offers him up something other than _die_ or _get fucked and then die_.

There’s a shifting of feet that means his empty stare is succeeding in making Robin uncomfortable.

“Seriously, we’ll have to do the whole _Vigilante Anonymous Spring Formal_ some other time,” and it doesn’t hurt his feelings in to turn his  _back_  and step over the piles of bodies everywhere because  _you wanted me gone, remember?_

Well, once the shock wears off, Nightwing and Robin will have the perfect  _excuse_. What they don’t know is very simple; the only one that determines whether or not he keeps this cape is going to be _him_ this time.

“ _Whoa,_  wait a minute, Tim, Timmy! C’ _mon_ , please just  _wait a minute_ ,” N coming right the fuck after him, and he sounds a little more  _together_.

Red manages to avoid the grasping hand, turning quick on his heel to make N stop fast to avoid smacking right into him. “I don’t have time for whatever the fuck this is. Set-up an appointment  _outside_  of bad guy, super-secret lairs.”

“If you’d answer your  _damn phone_  when I  _call_ , I  _would_  have made an appointment.” N seethes back, snarking just like the better days, and maybe that’s why he lets the elder former Robin grip his shoulder in an impossibly tight hold. The thumb of the other hand swipes under his bare eye, and without even _thinking_ , he slaps it away, wishes for a domino or the cowl.

“Look, I have no idea what the fuck you’re even doing here, but can you just—” _leave_

“ _Why_  we’re here?” N repeats dumbly, “we’re here for  _your_  silly ass, Tim. Why  _else_  would we just be crashing the League of  _Assassins_?”

For that, he’s got nothing.

“It is true,” Robin’s voice sounds… _off_ , and he turns toward the direction of that voice automatically to figure out  _why_ —

Oh. Lack of hate and disgust.

Hm. Wonder what happened  _there_.

“Drake… _Timothy_ —“

“It better not be because of this shit,” he warns Robin in a low tone (since, well,  _fuck_  your pity), “because I _will_ prove I can still  _break your face_ , Demon.”

Something of a chuff, almost a  _laugh_ , and that throws him right the hell off of his game.

“No,” the youngest admits in an uncharacteristic neutral tone, and there’s a hand around his wrist, one smaller than his own, fingers like steel. The grip pulls his hand, brings his fingers up to the  _R_  on Robin’s chest.

The same one Red used to wear.

“Because of  _this_ ,” Robin replies in that same tone, calm and neutral, while the shuriken  _R_  feels like it’s too small for his hand now. “I have worn the uniform, Timothy. Perhaps I understand you now when I could not  _then_.”

And Red’s jaw works, a muscle twitching there, and he pulls his hand away, turning back to the path out of Ra’s throne room with sixteen steps to the door.

“It was wrong,” Robin continues, moving with him, “how everything happened. This,” and Robin falters for a word, waving a hand around while his mind works, Red can feel the motion from where he’s standing, “this _family_ was far,  _far_  beyond my experience. If anyone knows the life inside the League of Assassins, it is  _you_ and my Father.  So, I had no  _reference_ , you understand? Weakness could mean death, but proving one’s self is to earn a place—and  _that_  is the “family” from which I came, of which I could  _function_.”

“Damian,” and Red pointedly breathes out, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers because  _this_ is not where he saw the breakout/kick-ass-a-palooza was going to  _go_. Sure as hell not with Demon Brat trying to almost, you know,  _apologize_  and shit.

“I am not attempting to justify my behavior,” Robin immediately maintains. “However, you deserve to _know_ , Timothy. They _why_ behind it all. Grayson and I have been discussing it at length, and we have come to an agreement concerning you. We shall definitely attempt to do our upmost. _That_ is a promise.”

And N hums in the positive, still too damn  _close_  and where’s a group of ninjas when you  _need_  one?  _Seriously_.

Very carefully, he asks, “do your upmost  _what_  exactly?” Because  _oh no_ , he’s not going to like where  _this_  is going.

N’s the one that steps in on it, leans down just a little, “we’re going to make it up to you, Tim. Whatever we need to do, we’re on it.”

_What now?_  His brain goes painfully blank.

“We have agreed,” Robin add solemnly. “We will do what is necessary.”

“… To make it up to me?” And his voice only warbles because he is pretty much  _lost_  here.

“Yup! Whatever it takes to bring you back to the family. It’s the new mission.”

And  _oh God no_ , this is  _Dick Grayson_  because  _that guy_  is all arms, and it’s too late to  _run_. He’s pulled into the patented  _octopus hug_ , and nothing short of  _dick bag aliens,_ legions of  _doom_ , or maybe Alfred pizza is going to pry him lose.

…

Except maybe _Batman_.

When the ceiling just, you know, crashes down in a cacophonous mess of things just _breaking_.

The Batman, however, lights down on the debris, looking none worse for wear after a fight with an immortal. Once he figured out what happened to Red Robin, the real strength, _Bat Dad_ , came to the fore.

Ra’s didn’t stand a _chance_.

The three of them scattered the second things started to fall in, and it’s strange how his body reacted automatically when Nightwing gripped him, _threw_ him in one of their old combination moves, how he just rolled with it, muscle memory driving him, the bo out to encounter objects to duck, dodge, or adjust. It’s something to consider when he straightens up as the Batman takes in the throne room at a glance.

Dark musk, leather, and after-shave.

“B,” and _thank God, it was getting awkward_ , “done playing Simon Says already? Ra’s cheats, by the way.”

The Bat hums while N and Robin get themselves out of their respective places, putting pellets and flying _owfuck_ causing weapons away discreetly.

But the Batman gives _no shits_ about getting right up in Red’s space, leaning down to make _sure_ Red is _aware_ he’s giving that signature _frown_. You know, like when Clark, Di, J’onn, or Wally gets in a certain _situation_ and B (after swearing he was absolutely _not_ going to ride in to the rescue _yet again_ for any one of their silly asses but resolutely goes to rescue their silly asses _anyway_ ) gets slightly _miffed_.

“I leave you for twenty minutes.” B deadpans.

Red just quirks a half smile and nods in agreement. “In my defense. Bad guys are totally _Bad. Guys_.”

“You have a tendency of pissing off the immortal megalomaniacs the best.”

“Pfft. Like _I’m_ the only one?”

B chuffs a low laugh in the base of his chest.

“Damn, I didn’t even have time to blow the charges, you know.”

“Why am I not surprised you placed detonators?”

He grins, more unabashed this time, “always have a plan.”

“Glad someone learned something,” B returns and finally glances at his other two sons, “sitrep?”

“ _Tt_. Honestly, Father.” Robin sounds about as unimpressed as they get, but well, just some ninjas, so no big deal. It’s a Bat Thursday up in here.

“All their systems will be down for a few hours, good to go,” but N still sounds _off_.

A light tap on the elbow makes him twitch just slightly. “It’d be nice to kick the shit out of some ninjas on the way, you know.”

“If you can find any, go for it,” B deadpans, “I’m sure it would be nice to have some options in the attempt.” And there it is, the slight metallic sound of his harness.

Definite win for the Batman.

Red accepts his gear, fitting on his harness and utility belt with fast, precise movements. His cowl is only partially functional, but at least the seam holding in the radar array is still sealed, so maybe Ra’s people hadn’t had time to pull it apart. Good. His tech is _his_ tech.

Instead of fucking with it in the middle of assassin central, he pulls a domino from the returned utility belt and activates the setting so red lenses slide down. The pulse is a shorter-reaching wave, not nearly as powerful as the cowl, bouncing off objects, giving him at least an idea of his surroundings, a few feet in front of him.

“We’re blowing this pop stand, boss?” N fills in, the heat of his body radiating against Red’s sensitive senses. The sound of Robin’s boots makes a sigh. He fits on the cape, flowing down his back in a familiar, soothing motion.

“I believe so, considering there isn’t much more I can break.” B answers nonchalant, but from the location of his voice, he’s looking in Red’s direction. Possibly because _yes_ , more thing can and probably _will_ get broken before they’re out of here. Absently, Red only fiddles with the compartment on his gauntlet that houses the remote for aforementioned charges.

“We must move to the plane, reinforcements will arrive soon. Once communications failed, others will come to investigate.” Robin advises low, the bouncing radar waves give the impression the kid has his arms crossed tightly, standing ramrod straight. And yes, he’s aware this is shitty, demon. Don’t worry, they can drop him off somewhere. Just _chill_.

“Unless there’s something else here, I’m good with getting the hell out,” he pulls the bo and starts to move, finding the massive hole in the ceiling of this fucking prison. “It’d be nice to get a ride back to Gotham anyway. Hitchhiking is totally unsafe, you know.” Even though he could probably find the hangar pretty easy on his own, and wire a plane the hell out, but no…no, he isn’t going to duck and vanish on B this time. He owes his former mentor that much at least.

Behind him, the Bats exchange a glance, their faces moving in twitches and ticks, talking in _Bat-Language_ not to push Red too far, give him no reason to take off.

An agreement between the three of them has N and Robin moving first, taking point. B follows, taps his elbow with two fingers in passing, and Red stays on his heels. He’s got his tech, his senses, and an understandable thirst to _kick_ some _ass_.

As far as things go, it could be _worse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, anyway, any kind of insights on being blind or how Tim could be functioning, tech or anything to give me a basis would be stellar. Seriously. And thanks for reading ;)


	3. Drabble: Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up is always a new experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine this song playing in the beginning, as is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fpgcT_py5g8.

There’s an alarm going off.

The sound reverberates in the base of his spine, triggering the new, very pointed _‘oh shit’_ sixth (or seventh?) sense, and makes him rise to consciousness in the warm cocoon of fuzzy blankets. The alarm itself is something _utterly fucking annoying_ since even sleep couldn’t help the residual mental hangover from whatever sound _torture_ Ra’s figured out. He buries his head back under the covers and groans a little at the red, pulsing pain picking up momentum at the base of his skull.

But, the realization is a sharp thing, lodging right between the pain and the _panic_ spots in his brain since the blaring alarm is vastly different from the one on his cell phone. You know, the only one he _uses_.

His useless eyes pop open, blowing wide, even as he throws off the thick, warm blankets (smells like camphor and musk, _oh God please no_ ), shaky fingers spread out into gravity until a smooth texture feeds intel to his fingertips (real wood, not hollow or shoddy materials, thick and heavy, smooth and professionally done); his fingers find the cord to the alarm clock first while adrenaline hits his system and it’s a _struggle_ to just stay where the fuck he is rather than leap up and take his chances to feel out the room where he’s apparently been placed—

( _No city noises outside, no traffic, trains, anything; could be soundproof glass, could be another evil lair because **that** would be better than where he suspects he’s ended up_ )

—and the small scar in the wood surface while his fingers chase the cord to the _fucking blaring alarm_ is evidence of _not in the Perch or a safe house_.

His fist comes down, smashing the damn clock into flying parts. One makes it almost past his face, knocks into his shoulder.

The satisfaction is just totally worth it when the noise _stops_ , and right on the tail end of _that_ thought is the inevitability that someone will figure out he’s awake and possibly useful, then clue in the possible plethora of bad guys.

Still, he comes back to the scar, the rounded edges, the depth, the ruined lamination around that single mark ( _and it so **could be** the same mark from the time he’d been using a soldering iron in Dick’s— **his** —room in Wayne Manor, back when things were fucking awful after Dad was murdered_), lets the sensitive pad of his finger get snagged on it.

Still, plenty of ways a mark like that could have been made—still more evidence to collect to verify his theory. Since his bleary memory recalls following behind B with the half-working cowl, remembers getting in on another potentially life-threatening assassin fight, he can assume one of two things: if he’s really in Wayne Manor after all this time, then his senses get a 10/10 stars, and he’ll need to squeeze into one of the smaller vents that feed right into the Batcave. You know, a little duck and dodge. But, if he’s still somehow in the maniacal clutches of the League of Assassins, some Bats are probably in _immediate fucking peril_ and it’s time to shake off whatever is making him slow the fuck down for some _blind justice_.

(Yup, _totally_ his new catchphrase)

For a moment, he just _breathes_ , lets himself fall into a slightly meditative state in which his senses are heightened even more, trying to detect anything in the room that could signal guards, bad guys, or traps.

And his legs find the edge of the bed, feet on the floor while he fumbles to arrange pillows and throw the blankets back over them; then, it’s a little more than the usual _hard work_ because there’s nothing else but that shitty alarm clock within arm’s reach. So, his face is hot when he has to listen closely, makes clicking noises with his tongue in cheek to try placing where the walls are, where the door could be, if any windows are in the place using a half-assed form of echo-location. It’s not effective for fighting or hacking, but at least it helps him not faceplant into walls and shit.

He’s silent once again as he strafes to the far wall, feeling the closed door to assess weight and strength. He takes long enough to make himself comfortable, to _wait_ for it.

When muffled voices come closer (and _fuck_ the door must be thick for him to just get an impression), he fights through the pulsing thump in his head to crack his neck and _get the fuck ready_.

Luckily, what most people _didn’t_ know, is that he hadn’t needed his eyes to fight in years, going all the way back to the earliest days of the _R,_ * the Ghost Dragons, Lynx, and Sir Edmund Fucking Dorrance—the King Snake. Even before he was really in the _role_ , before he was a _Bat_ , he was in his first year training with the tunic, sent to Hong Kong to get his act together before he hit the streets of Gotham as a full-fledged vigilante. During that year, he’d been trained by Lynx, Shiva, the better fighters in the Ghost Dragons, hell, even Dorrance at times; he can and always could fight without the use of his eyes.  The patches for his arms and legs? Just a contingency, something to give him an edge on the baddies.

Hell, at this juncture, he could skateboard again.

Natch.

The knob twists, and his whole body goes still, barely breathing, pressing against the wall, legs slightly bent, one hand palm out to stop the door from hitting him when it open and shoving it closed once the intruders are through.

The plan comes together like it always does in his head—a second of motion at a time. Only, he takes more aspects into consideration, placing the room as he understands it, judging his opponents by the muffled, indistinguishable noises.

The door opens slowly, softly to silence, and he waits with the last breath locked into his lungs, hoping the rumpled covers over the pillows is convincing enough. Every muscle is tense, waiting.

Footsteps inside, another set following behind, and, well, _gotcha._

Several things happen at once, slowing time down just enough for him to slam the door closed (in case anyone else is waiting in the corridor/hallway; the door opening again would give him the _oh shit_ signal) and _leap._

He’s got them both before they can draw a breath to yell out for help, taking the taller of the two down with a singular leg sweep and nerve strike; the shorter one chokes with the lock around his neck and legs around his waist, immobilizing him, and taking them both to the floor.

And since he’s _that_ good, the opening door is just enough of a moment for him to tighten his hold, try to put the smaller one _down_ for the count, already half-standing to—

The taller one wraps a hand around his ankle, able to reach from where Tim put him down in the first place.

“ _Master Timothy!?”_ Is the shocked question from the doorway.

And everything _stops_.

His heart picks up, beating hard against his chest because _God_ , it’s been so long, and he _knows_ —

“A-Alfred…” a whispered admission and he immediately releases the choke hold, both hands coming up in that _not dangerous, nothing to see here_ kind of way.

“Dammit,” Damian wheezes, staying right on his knees to choke and cough. “Nice…ruse… _Drake_.”

“I learned it at Vigilante Summer Camp one year. Never know when you have to fool those pesky bad guys,” he replies through numb lips, grudgingly taking a knee, his hands coming up automatically, fingers wiggling in under Damian’s hold to press gently against his throat ( _hyoid is fine, nothing strained_ ).

To his surprise, Damian tilts his head back and stays still, allows him to assess.

“I don’t think I damaged anything…um, sorry. I wasn’t sure—I wasn’t _sure_ where I was when I woke up.” And it’s a grudging admission, a _weakness_ he usually has measures to counter.

Fumbling behind him, he follows the hand still wrapped around his ankle, and uses both thumbs to press against the nerve clusters he struck at the front of Dick’s shoulder next to his pectoral. His thumbs press in hard, earning a pained noise from the older vigilante. But yeah, it immediately takes effect.

“The alarm clock seems to be the only unfortunate casualty, Master Timothy,” Alfred replies, and the background rattle (tray) as he moves, the smell of wonder things (life _coffee_ ) for his aching head. “On the bright side, however, vigilantes in this household often seem to disregard their _relevance_. Well, at the very least, that is why I _assume_ you are not yet ready for school, Master Damian.”

Tim bites down on his lip (and _oh yeah,_ he’s been on the end of _that_ tone before). “Mmhm, sorry about it anyway, Alfred. My _“expect the unexpected”_ instinct failed me this time.”

“I am absolutely certain it has nothing whatsoever to do with an enormous amount of sleep deprivation or lack of a decent meal.” Pouring and the butler isn’t facing the room, giving them time to _get it together_.

“That is probably…somewhat accurate,” he allows, fingers skimming along the nightstand by the bed before he stands. Someone put him in sweats and a t-shirt, ones that don’t feel worn in the wash. “Bad guys honestly have no respect for three square meals a day.”

And _yes_ , that masked noise is a _laugh_. Something in his chest, something clenched _tight_ seems to ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW: Red Robin#2, page 18. Cannon: Tim Drake doesn’t need his eyes to fight thanks to the King Snake (or Sir Edmund Dorrance), you can read about it here. Ah, just a short thing because I had to get it out of my brain pan.


	4. 4: the Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And really, it's never been this hard to get out of Wayne Manor before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this was also on Tumblr so just finally updating :D

 

Getting out of Wayne Manor proved to be more of a pain in the ass than he initially thought it _should_ be. Most of his life, he’s had little adult supervision, few people telling him when and where to go, or if he _can’t._ Really, Bruce was the first adult to set complicated rules, to hold him _back_ or push him _forward_ (you know, when he was _that_ Robin), but even _then_ , he still had freedom to move without restraints. If he needed to hit crime scenes, information sources, track baddies, and later, meet with his allies, his _teams_ , he just _went_. He might shoot B a text, leave a note or something, but he was rarely hindered.

This? One of those _rare_ times.

“We _just_ got you back from the League of Assassins,” B is arguing, trying to sound reasonable.

Ruffle of a newspaper, a sharp _snap_ , but B isn’t really reading it, not even skimming, there’s no shift of a thumb over the edges like when he’s concentrating.

“I already had a way out and other contingencies. Explosions, remember?” He deadpans, arms crossed over his chest (and since _when_ did it feel _odd_ to be talking to B without a mask or cowl on? When did he start getting an itch of discomfort being in the Manor?… Oh, right, since he’s fucking _riff raff_ ). “It’s not like I don’t appreciate Bat intervention, Bruce, I do. Thank-you for coming, but I have other things that need attention—” _Please let me just **leave** without fighting—not in front of Damian and Dick_.

“And I am to assume,” Alfred Pennyworth begins from a few feet by his right side, close to the buffet, smell of coffee, eggs, waffles, and something _sharper_ , probably juice, “these _things_ are more pressing than a hardy breakfast, Master Timothy?”

Movement, soft steps, a slight heel on the shoe against the carpet, stronger scent of coffee, warmth of body heat. Without a hitch, he holds out a hand and moves his face only slightly toward Alfred as the saucer fills his palm with a whole lot of _familiar_. His thumb maps out the engraved vines in the saucer, the W in the center while his first finger automatically dips over the rim of the mug, checks how full it is before he lifts it to his mouth for a sip, and just—

 _God, Alfred coffee is like no coffee ever **made**_.

(And _no_ , he’s not thinking about the room upstairs that’s still _his_ apparently or that Alfred remembers how he likes his coffee— _nope, not going to think about it. Not at all._ )

“Crime never stops, Alfred,” he counters, feeling the heat of gazes on him, standing by the long dining room table, in the t-shirt and sweats he woke up wearing (new, not _borrowed_?), bare feet and face, his too-long hair probably still a mess with only some water and fingers to run through it.

“Perhaps not, young Sir, but it certainly has a nutritious breakfast _before_ plotting sundry nefarious deeds.”

He chuffs a laugh, holding the cup and saucer. “This is all the breakfast I need, thanks anyway. I need to get back to my Perch and check on the analysis I have running.”

Another sharp snap of the paper, rustling of it being folded, laid down (close to Dick’s left hand as usual). His empty gaze swings back to Bruce automatically, a _Robin_ action that makes him pause because isn’t _this_ little situation familiar—

Going over his cases with Bruce at the breakfast table, giving out the details, working through the evidence and suspects with him, Dick joining them whenever he was in from the ‘Haven. The two or three of them breaking all the aspects down, looking for the hidden subtleties, picking crime scenes apart, looking over photographs and analysis results, circling the dining room table with cups of coffee and a bite of egg or waffle while they muse aloud to one another, while they _work together—_

It’s a whole lot of _nostalgia_ right here, one that makes his chest _tight_ (because they helped him along the road to being a detective, to being a vigilante he could be _proud_ of, and like it was all supposed to come back in some crazy kind of circle, here the fuck he is _again_ ).

“I can connect the big computer to your system if you want the answers now.” Bruce gives him a way without making it _seem_ so in a way that’s just _so Bruce_ —pushing what he wants indirectly (Clark has finally gotten as good at reading into it as he has), only pressuring when it’s _necessary_.

“Isolated V-LAN,” he answers softly, gaze pointing in the direction of Bruce’s voice, “it’s not on a network.” And if he relaxes a little, just a _little_ —

“If… it is a matter of—” Damian’s voice cuts in, makes his shoulders draw up on some long-established instinct (you know, being _thrown_ through glass cases and such) even though he’d known the current Robin was there because of the sweet musk and patchouli scent underlying Dick’s subtle aftershave, “—how you must eat, Pennyworth and I have completed research to ascertain the most appropriate methods of preparation and presentation.”

And here’s the part where he really shouldn’t _ask_ any questions, at all. He should put the cup and saucer down, go back upstairs, take the shortcut vent down to the Cave, find his cowl, and _peace right the fuck right_.  

But again, _should_.

“…research.  About how I eat.” He says it slowly, not really questions there, but the shifting, creaking, material on wood, the shifts of knees under the table cloth—

“Common practices to cook for the visually impaired,” Damian explains in a careful, measured tone.

Dick, in his usual place at Bruce’s right hand, pauses in taking in everything (because Tim is back in the Manor) turns only slightly, eyebrows drawn, “you _knew._ You knew and you didn’t tell me. I’m so disappointed in you right now.”

The sound of cloth moving is the youngest Robin shrugging, “I was aware, yes. It was, however, not my place to tell you. Not without Drake’s permission.”

“Oh? But you could tell _Alfred_?”

The responding noise is a nasty-sounding _tt_. “Pennyworth is the keeper of the Bats, Grayson. Of course he must know. You, on the other hand, would poison Drake with your idea of _cuisine_.”

“I’m _insulted_ , Dami. Tim likes my spaghetti and meatballs!”

And yes, actually, yes he did. Dick used to put a little sugar in his sauce, just like Mrs. Mac.

Tim sighs softly as they banter back and forth ( _Robin and his Batman_ ), holding the saucer and cup in the thumb and forefinger of one hand while the other massages the bridge of his nose. The last thing he wants right now is to be thrown in the middle of their family breakfast— _wrong_ Robin, remember?

“Thanks for looking out, Damian.” He interrupts their back-and-forth, catching the irritated tapping of Bruce’s finger against his own cup and saucer. And, well, _maybe_ he’d been somewhat anxious about trying to eat with all of them watching him, assessing, but that was really just a secondary reason. “But no, I’m fine. Eating isn’t a problem.” _Being up in the Manor, in my old **room** is the problem._

“Just working a case before the League of Assassins came calling?” Dick asks, playing the more blatant card of Bruce’s.

Gingerly, he puts the saucer down on the table, still ignoring the chair he knows is empty on Bruce’s left, has no intention of taking it up again.

“It’s something I need to get back to,” he replies instead, tone carefully empty because _Dick_ and whatever crazy plan must be going through his head.

“Tim. You don’t have to _go_ ,” and it’s the tone of voice when all joking aside. “Back at Ra’s place, we were _serious_ —”

 _Sure_. “Again, I appreciate the sentiment.”

He turns on his heel, finding the matter settled, and if he hadn’t spent most of his _life_ here, had learned all the ins and outs of Wayne Manor early on during long spans of crime solving, pacing all over the first floor, he’d have a hand on the wall to guide himself out.

As is, he doesn’t need it (and _well_ , there’s a lot of things he doesn’t need at this stage of the game), and can take the stairs, can find his old room again by muscle memory alone. His phone, previously left on the dresser (old habit—don’t think about how Bruce _remembered_ that), talks when he hits the main button, an application he made himself.

“How can I assist you?”

“Activate Black Bird, tracking protocol.” And he ducks slightly, runs a hand around—

Ah. There’s the vent.

“Black Bird activated,” the voice from his phone soothes as footsteps outside the open door are silent, but not Bat silent.

“There will be no need for that, Master Timothy,” Alfred’s voice soothes as he enters the room, something in his hands swaying. “I have collected your suit and sundries.”

Unruffled as always, Alfred is probably here to help move it along. You know, _out with the old_.

“I appreciate it,” he repeats, straightening, holding out a hand.

Alfred hums and hands the thing over, watching Master Tim’s fingers trace over the pack to find zippers and pouches, watches those fingers _pause_ when they come to safety pins and old band patches sewn in to the canvas with half-assed stitches.

Alfred fervently hopes it relays the correct message.

Tim goes still, dead eyes fixed on a spot just over Alfred’s shoulder. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten everything out of the Manor the first time.

 _Oops_.

He opens his mouth to ask if there’s anything _else_ he should be taking, but Alfred is already moving to the closet, filling in the stunned silence.

“I have taken the liberty of packing a light fare. I do hope you are still partial to my tomato and cheese omelets?”

Shit. His stomach rumbles slightly, and Alfred can probably _hear_ it.

“Thank-you,” is what he can manage, digging into his old ( _Robin’s_ ) backpack, fingers finding the slick edge of metal, the catch of his harness. A little more digging and the heavy cloth of the utility belt pouches, finally his fingertips nudge plastic, the side of a regular pair of shades.

Alfred is already back from the closet, standing close, “if you would, Sir?”

He pauses and something plastic touches the back of his hand, something with braille written on the other side. His fingers move over the tag _hooded sweatshirt; World of Warcraft design_. A second tag replaces the first _shoes; DC brand; black with blue DC logo_. And Tim sits on the bed abruptly with the tag in hand, the other still in the backpack, gripping the shades, yet to pull them out and on.

And he doesn’t need to _see_ to know Alfred is giving him some kind of _look_ , something that could be _here is the last of your clothing, Sir. Please be careful on your way **out**_ or something that could even be _I shall fetch another should this not be to your liking_.

He’s in a bad place to make a _guess_.

“This is fine,” he finally breathes out.

“Very good. The t-shirt you are wearing is black with white lettering. It reads: The Physics is Theoretical, but the Fun is Real.” (Someone obviously _knows_ him because that? Priceless. Enough that he sniggers) “The sweatpants are also black with a white drawstring.”

He nods but Alfred moves away, pulling out a drawer in the bureau, “would you care for blue, white, or black socks?”

He catches himself from saying blue (since most of his blue clothing used to be the same color as Nightwing’s suit), “white please.”

“Certainly.”

He finally gets himself together enough to slide on the shades, pull his extendable bo from the utility belt.

“Your hooded sweatshirt is on your right side, the shoes will be here by your left foot, and the socks laid across them.” And Alfred retreats a few steps, the sound of steps muffled, waiting on something.

Going with option number 1, Tim pulls on his socks and shoes, sliding the tags in the pocket of the sweats. He slides his arms through the sleeves of the hoodie, zips it up and adds the backpack. The bo (cane), pops out with the press of a thumb.

“The Rolls is ready at your convenience.” Alfred cuts in as he’s almost through the open door

Again, with the tone of voice, _Option 1 or 2_ hovers in his brain pan.

“My ride is on the way actually,” he counters, not turning back around. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

The impolite chuff is very familiar in that _being a pain in the ass will make the butler angry_ kind of way.

“Master Timothy, if you would be so kind.”

This time, he does turn, bo in one hand because he must have left something else that needed to be removed so the room can turn into a guest room or storage or—

But Alfred’s hands are a completely different type of strength from Bruce’s. A strength that more to do with _will_. Hands that are recognizable without sight, and the grip on his biceps is something jarring, unexpected. It’s been a while since he’s been… _hugged_ (Dick’s octopus hold and Bruce’s self-recrimination hold notwithstanding).

“What is it, Alfred?” He asks hesitantly, staying stiff because he’s only _slightly_ at a loss here.

“Promise to come back soon. And should you need anything, promise you will call. If it is your preference I not tell Master Bruce, Master Dick, or Master Damian, then I shall honor that request. However, simply _call_.”

His mouth works for a second, no sound coming out.

“Alfred, I—”

“We’ve missed you,” the butler fills in, “it would ease my conscience if I believed you really _would_ call should you have a need.”

And the laugh is very not one of those _ha-ha_ funny ones. Alfred’s grip just tightens.

**

In the entryway to Wayne Manor, Bruce is waiting. The smell of his cologne, and the utter stillness all he needs to be able to tell.

The phone in his hoodie pocket chirps, “the Black Bird has arrived at your destination. Twenty-one steps away.”

There’s a look exchanged between Bruce and Alfred. He doesn’t need to see it to know it’s happening.

“I have a ride.” He answers the question before Bruce even has to ask.

But there’s a hand on his shoulder, a big hand that does that familiar thing, _grounding him_ even after the last few years alone. “Promise you’ll come back before you leave Gotham again.”

His smile is somewhat brittle, small against the dark sunglasses hiding his dead eyes.

“At least patrol with me once if you won’t come back to the Manor.”

“Batman has a Robin, B.”

The hand twitches and tightens, the old memories between them ( _“Batman needs a Robin!”_ ).

B leans down just enough, “you’re _still_ my Robin, Tim. You always will be, just like Dick and Jason. No matter what other name you take, you’re the boy that wore the tunic for me. You’re my partner. Don’t ever forget that.”

And—

Bruce plucks the glasses off his eyes without a hitch and wraps his arms around Tim again, just like he did in the Cave, just like he did when he asked if adoption was okay, just like he did when it was a hard night and a shaky Robin needed something _more_ than a “Good job.”

It’s so easy, too easy to sink in, to grip right back, fist his hands into the t-shirt, close his eyes, breathe out shakily. It’s too much, making his eyes hot for the first time in…

Well, _nope_ , not going there.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, but breathes in deep (and who called for _hug_ day or some shit? Really, it’s getting to be a bit much, like _where’s Jason Todd and please warn him if_ that guy _is looking for more than a little stab, stab, bang_ ).

So maybe…he could just agree to something, make B feel better about this whole thing, “okay, Bruce. Before I go…something. I’ll call or…something. I don’t know. Patrol or whatever.”

The hand in his hair scratches at his scalp (and really, it’s a _weakness_ okay? Steph is the one that figured it out first, so of course she’d spill it to _Batman_ ), rewarding him for opening up just a little. When it feels too nice, almost enough to make him sigh and come back in to eat breakfast at the table after all, he pulls back, a half-smile making Bruce think Tim might actually look his age once and a while. The glasses are slid back on his face and Alfred gently opens the front door for him as both watch him go. Alfred leans in slightly to say a gentle, “be careful, Master Tim.”

The former Robin pauses long enough to smile before he starts out into the sunlight.

And the World’s Greatest Detective calculates and considers—not for the first time since they brought a sleeping Tim to the Manor after the fight with the League—just what the hell Ra’s al Ghul wants with the third Robin anyway. Since Dick and Damian are on a _make Tim part of the family_   _again_ , kick, they might be willing to do some leg work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I'm still feeling this world out. Like, a lot. So far Jason Todd is probably not going to make an appearance (he's probably with the Outlaws just hanging out and whatnot); there will be some kind of relationship (but probably not for Tim); the Titans will probably make an appearance eventually. BUT! You know how I will always take suggestions and observations. Feel free to throw them out, and thanks for reading.


	5. 5: The Perch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it’s finely honed instincts that allow him to backbend slightly before he’s even a step through the hidden staircase to avoid the hot mug of coffee being shoved directly in his face.
> 
> “I’m going to need you,” Tamara Fox starts out in that patiently irritated tone, “to get Bruce Wayne the hell out of my office. And I need you to do it yesterday.”
> 
> Well. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in writer's block HELL. So, here's a short thing. Ah, I've never written Tam before so here it goes.

The Black Bird is a rough and tumble design. Close to a year and a half of work into making the car his new ride (because, you know, _not that Robin anymore_ ). It's the biggest pre-Iraq project, started shortly after he left Gotham and realized he'd probably never be welcome in the Cave, the Manor, or in with the Bats again (it wasn't… _fine_ at the time. Fuck it was a painful realization, one hovering in the back of his brain pan while adapted to the _nefarious_ side of the Force—stealing and then returning Bat-shaped artifacts and such).

Naturally, it’s the first project he picked-up in the transition period—the one _after_ the Mission: prove the Bruce was still alive and fucking _find_ him. After he’d done the job, sent Bruce back to Gotham to recover, to get his own orientation, Tim had packed up the Red Robin costume and returned to Gotham City. While adjusting to his ever-sharpening senses (and _yes_ , Tam even toned down the light but cloying perfume once she realized it gave him migraines within the first five minutes) and trying to determine his next steps in the whirlwind of _holy shit_ his life had become (w _ho was he kidding? When was his life **not** a shit storm of ‘what next’?)_ , he’d put up the suit until he made his choice about where to go from there.

Of course, once he had nothing to focus on, no reason to _keep moving_ , the eventual fallout of _oh God_ , _how can I do this? Fuck that, I am doing this. I’m going to figure out **how** the fuck to do this_ came with the determination to finish the half-assed projects he’d left the night Dick took Robin and handed it over to Damian.  The projects became something _important,_ something so _crucial_ to proving he could still get his shit together.

The Black Bird was the first on the list.

He’d originally worked on the specs, did the heavy lifting between finding frustrating clue after clue (the Bat symbol on a cavern wall, made into an earthen pot, a wax stamp to mark documents). He’d even been mid-way through programming the massive computer system, one similar to the one in the Batmobile (the last one he’d actually _ridden in_ that is) so he could calibrate it to lock on to his homing signal in the utility belt and auto-pilot itself to his location.  The coding alone had been extensive, especially considering he’d started from literally scratch, refusing to access the Batcomputer to get the initial set-up from Bruce’s mainframe. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to trip any of Dick’s instincts, hadn’t wanted to give himself away, hadn’t wanted to _talk_ or swing or what-the-fuck-ever (but secretly he’d been pretty damn sure all his access had been revoked from the big system anyway, he just hadn’t wanted to face that finality, the _proof_ of ‘you don’t belong here anymore.’ Fuck, he’d already gotten _that_ message loud and clear.)

Working on the Black Bird was the only thing keeping him sane, keeping him from running further away, from believing Dick had a fucking point and maybe he might just be having some kind of psychological break. When none of them believed in him, it's the only thing that kept him moving.

He'd only finished the body work and undercarriage before he'd been blinded and going back to it immediately had been... a _reminder_ of what he’d lost (another thing he’d had to _sacrifice_ ). The damn car sat up on the automatic lift until he came back to Gotham a month after he’d sent B back to Dick, Damian, and Alfred, getting through _that_ little meet-and-greet without giving out too many details but satisfied and terrified at the same time since, well, _Mission accomplished. Now what?_

Finding B lost in time had been the real clincher in the whole _should I stick with it?_ mentality. Even though no one but Ra's, Shiva, and Tam knew, it was always on the tip of his tongue, in a puddle at the bottom of his brain pan when the rest of his contingencies mapped out exactly _how_ to get through things like _space/time_.

_Find Bruce, get him back, and then what?_

Safe answer: _go to college,_ say _“fuck this lifestyle.”_

But… _but_ —

Instead of feeling like his last action as a crime fighter would be a big send-off, a final win for their side, and the last blast before he gave up the cape, the part of him, the part that pushed him to be **ROBIN** rose up to sneer _Give up? Be a normal guy? College? A 9-5 job? What the utter fuck, dude?_

So, he'd taken the time, jumped in with both hands all over again (and it’s just like when he was on a train to Haley’s Circus at twelve years old, hoping to convince Dick Grayson to take up the Robin mantle again and _save Batman_. Welp, we all know how _that_ little situation panned out, don’t we?). Getting his projects done, getting the tools he’d _need_ to function, getting a network established, setting up _shop_ again so Red Robin could throw out his own safety net in the instance of _shit, shit, Plan X failed_ (thus, the Black Bird). Honestly, he’d made the decision before he’d even realized it himself.

And _nope,_ he hasn't regretted it yet.

Well, once he realizes someone breached the upstairs of the Perch, there might be just a small smidge after all since very, _very_ few people knew how to find him and, even better, how to get _in_.

Straightening from his place at the hidden workbench in the sub-basement level, several vertebrae in his spine crack sharply, telling him how long he’d been bent over the stack of whirlybirds, taking his time to solder new microchips under the insignia and Plexiglas casing. These were marked with a niche on the bottom, a groove deep enough for his gloves to catch when he’s in the suit; he’d also made them much smaller than the usual palm-sized— rather, almost the size of a silver dollar and with a low-frequency output most people wouldn’t even _detect_ , but could give him placement in places with high ceilings or echoes (you know, when the baddies hold up in shitty warehouses and such). He stands up to stretch while his phone gives off a specific beep, one to indicate the Perch’s motion detectors had been set off. Snagging the device, he leaves his progress where it is, minutely adjusting the tools so he could come back to it. Barefoot, he pads out through the hidden door of the inner workshop and onto the plush, vinyl mats of the functional gym, takes 36 steps to the side area with workbenches along one wall to keep his suit stocked with the usual toys. Finally another 18 to the hidden staircase and up the back passage to the penthouse apartment.

It took him long enough for the smell of fresh coffee to waft halfway down the stairs and set off his inner _caffeine_ sense. While the fingertips of one hand run along the wall absently, automatically, his stomach rumbles in reminder of how long it’s been since he’s tried to do, _you know_ , real people things like sleep and eat.

(It’s fine, his _guest_ probably already _knows_ )

And it’s finely honed instincts that allow him to backbend slightly before he’s even a step through the hidden staircase and avoid the hot mug of coffee being shoved _directly in his face_.

“I’m going to need _you_ ,” Tamara Fox starts out in that _patiently irritated_ tone, “to get _Bruce Wayne_ the _hell_ out of my office. And I need you to do it _yesterday_.”

Well. Shit.

“Hi Tam. Nice to see you too,” he takes the mug gratefully as he straightens up, steps out to allow the wall to slide closed and hide the stairs again. He checks the level of liquid pointlessly while the rim is already at his mouth and just _perfect_. Of course it is because Tam is the quintessential _perfectionist_ (and _nope_ , she can argue all she wants about _reckless decisions_ and such—again, sorry you almost _died_. Really, it’s my life, so I can totally sympathize). But he smiles around the first mouthful and moves to the kitchen table so she can pace and rant at her leisure and he can enjoy a few minutes of sitting upright.

“Bruce has been at WE I take it?” He starts the train rolling even as he pulls out a chair to make himself comfortable.

“Has Bruce been— _are you kidding me?_ ”

_Choo-choo_ , _allll aboard_

“He’s been there all week, Tim. Not in his office, not with my dad, not with the board. He’s been _literally in my office_. I’ve given him stacks of paperwork for the last _three days_ and he _still_ isn’t leaving. Monday? He had a champagne _fountain_ in the middle of the office and invited everyone from Accounting to come up for a drink.”

_Oh. Oh no_.

He makes a positive noise for _go on_ while the coffee sits warm in his stomach and he cracks the knuckles of one hand absently.

“Tuesday? He brought two models up for a photo shoot, _including_ equipment, backdrop, and whatever the hell they needed for a magazine cover!”

And Tam takes six long strides to cover the kitchen before she turns and takes six back, always more at ease to talk while she’s doing something. That’s her, someone who is in perpetual motion. Slight sighs are her hands and arms moving to gesture without a hitch in her step.

“And it was for _Forbes_ , Tim. He had half-naked models posing with him for the cover of _Forbes_.”

He enjoys breathing enough that he doesn’t snicker, he might choke a little on his coffee, but really, not laughing here at all.

“Bruce was always a little…quirky. All rich guys are.”

She pauses long enough to face him, gritting her teeth, “most _rich guys_ don’t bring their own brand of _crazy_ in the middle of _my office_ , Tim.”

Just a slight wince, but, well, _Tam_. “Well, he’s also Batman, so that should factor in to his brand of crazy.”

A slight noise is a wave of her hand, “I’m not worried about the scary man that breaks faces for a living. I’m worried about the former-CEO who is going to be back _in my office_ Monday morning with _God know what else_ unless he gets some information on how you’re doing.”

Damn. He’d hoped B would leave Tam out of anything unrelated to WE—

Wait. _What now?_

“Wait. You’re telling me he _didn’t_ come to you to get his company back?”

His mug makes a sharp noise on the table from force because he had certain _expectations_ on how _that_ little situation was going to pan out for everyone.

The chair across from him pulls out with a soft scratch, and his spine straightens when she slides into the chair. Papers flutter and _clack_ when they’re straightened, slide across the table in front of him.

Tam not talking means _nothing good_.

His fingertips are already moving over the soft line of dots across the top of the pages, moving from the usual WE headers and down to the bulk of content:

_I, Robert Bruce Wayne, assign all duties and responsibilities of Chief Executive Officer of Wayne Industries and Wayne International to Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne_ —

His jaw drops, hand stutters across the braille line.

Tam hums just slightly around the sound of drinking from her own mug (and it’s probably the special one he keeps for her, the whole _You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it **helps**_ one).

His fingers skip down, move across the page slowly in shock, his brain coming up with what fucking _reason_ Bruce would just—

“He did that playboy moron thing he’s got going on for a while, but—and I’m not sure _where_ he got the right forms—but, he brought them to me signed and notarized on Friday. We…well, we _talked_ a little. I mean, like _people_ , not like _you_ kind of people about bad guys and fighting, but like _real_ people. The real guy is kind of…intense?” Tam sighs a little and the noise is heavy in his ears, stressed. Without thinking, he raises his head slightly and slides his free hand across the table, seeking until he gets the bump of her knuckles, wraps his hand around hers, runs his thumb over the back of her hand in a soothing gesture. It did wonders to calm her down when they were in the belly of the proverbial beast, the League of Assassins’ Cradle.

_Okay. This could be worse than I thought_.

“He wants you to stay as CEO and for me to be your _I don’t know_ second-in-command or something? Dad wants R &D back because he _says_ he’s getting too old to keep up with all the duties, and Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem to _want_ the controlling interest back, so I don’t know what else to tell you to do, Tim. Only that you _have_ to address the employees in person eventually, do a formal introduction to the Board. Start coming into an office _somewhere_ so people can see you once in a while.”

He has _nothing_ but changing thoughts and motivations running through his brain at high speeds and keeps listening, his reading hand absently skimming through the rest of the page, turning it over to start scanning the next. He takes everything into account since Tam must have already started planning the next steps in what was _supposed_ to be a strategic move to keep the company from falling into Ra’s al Ghuls’ grubby, immortal hands. He wasn’t _really_ supposed to _run_ Wayne Industries.

Just, _nope_. ( _Bruce really doesn’t expect him to **do** this, right?_)

“He did…He _asked_ for you to call him. Soon. Just to talk, he said.” And she sighs a little, gripping his hand back when he hadn’t realized he was squeezing a little _tight_.

Next page. Job description. _Pfft._

“I think…” it’s a pause where her eyes are probably on his, where she’s probably biting down on her lower lip before she comes out with it. “I think he misses you, Tim.”

He stops reading long enough to pick up his coffee again and drain it to get rid of the lump in his throat.

“He has a Robin,” is the right response (or, well, it _was_ ). “Now he wants a CEO. I get it. It’ll take the pressure off of him to be a constant figure. He can still do the ‘Bruce Wayne’ things for the society sections without being tied down to the company. It’s…a smart move for a caped crime fighter.”

And then something she said resonates in his brain, makes him perk slightly.

“Wait. He said he wants to _talk_?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, he said he wanted to have _a talk_. Maybe about the paper work—”

“Where’s your purse?” And he’s already half-standing, reaching out a hand.

Tam (who got a first-hand view of his inner vigilante sense during _go-time_ ) goes with it, the noise of it coming off the back of another chair and delivered right into his hands.

Tim sets the heavy thing between them on the table, fingers moving to the delicate stitching all over the thing (and it’s one of those ridiculously expensive ones, a _Marc Jacobs_ or something), and—

_Yup. Fuck._

Few, if anyone, would be able to pick out the slight bulge of fabric on the underside, but he picks the seam with a fingernail because, _of course_ , the tiny, Bat-shaped device is just _right there_.

“That is a _Four. Hundred. Dollar_ bag, just so _you’re aware_.”

He holds out the device in the center of his palm, and deadpans, “I’ll buy you a new one. Apparently, I’m a CEO now.”

Tam blinks down at the blinking red device and back up at Tim’s grim expression and off-focus gaze when the realization sets in. “He _played me_? I got played by _Bruce Wayne_?”

“Technically, you got played by Batman. That should actually make you feel _better_.” And he gets only slightly pissed off that B _went there_. He’s more concerned knowing B is aware of their connection—his and Tam’s—since he’s never been necessarily _happy_ when civilians find out their identities.

“This is a little _much_ , isn’t it?” And _yup_ , someone messing with Tam’s one obsession. Now he’s _really_ hoping B shows up in her office on Monday so she can chew his ass right the fuck _out_ (mental note: check the live feed from her office while _that_ little discussion is going down. Also, make popcorn)—that is, if he can get out of Gotham before a whole bunch of crime fighting wingnuts decide to descend on his Perch.

“I…haven’t talked to him since I left the Manor last week.”

“ _Really?_ You don’t say? Well, isn’t _that_ a perfectly _reasonable_ justification to cut a hole in _my Chanel handbag?_ ”

Tim blinks as his inner sense kicks the tension in his shoulders and back up a _notch_ just before his phone chirps again with the motion detector warning, this one outside the front door.

“I may or may not have mentioned,” he deadpans, _waiting for it_ , “he’s _Batman_.”

The doorbell is unassuming while he’s already moving on silent feet. He doesn’t bother with glasses because he already _knows_ who’s out there anyway.

He cracks the front door just slightly, frowning. “Sorry. We’re not buying Girl Scout Cookies today. Thanks.”

“Not even the coconut ones? Those are all I have left.” Bruce’s voice is only slightly deep, so probably in his day ware, not the nightfall outfit (so… _what the Great Fuck is happening here?_ ).

“I don't buy from cheaters,” he returns while still opening the door. After the effort, Bruce isn’t just going to go away, _that much_ is pretty damn clear.

“It’s not cheating. I worked for it fair and square since you won’t pick up a phone, Tim.”

He closes the door behind Bruce’s massive figure, closing his eyes for a second to steel himself for whatever _this_ might be.

A thin, plastic noise from Bruce’s right hand, “Nice to see you again, Miss Fox. I hope Prada is to your liking?”

**

More coffee is made and consumed until Tam (the _traitor_ ) leaves the penthouse with her new bag in tow and a litany of praises for Bruce’s sense of _style_ ( _after_ the epic  _ass-chewing_ she gave _Batman_ ). The Chanel is still a point of contention, though, he can hear it in her voice when she thanks _Mr. Wayne_ for his thoughtfulness (like she’s saying _you ass hat_ instead…and will always be why Tam is one of his Top 5 favorite people of all time).

They’d (B and Tam) spent a little over an hour discussing the state of the company with B giving him some surprised kudos when she mentions a few of the projects he’d initiated in his first few months of being a CEO; the reality of the situation (of which he failed to mention) is he’d given their engineers and scientists a few inventions and software designs to tinker with to cement himself in the role, so as few questions as possible would be posed as to _why is **that** guy up in this business?_ At the time, he was just seventeen, barely managed to get his GED, and was an _adopted_ son—the backlash from the media had been enough to keep him moving between trying to find Bruce, stay _out_ of Dick’s Bat-Radar, and keep the stocks from literally plummeting.

The first MedPod had hit the market, and all those critics started to _take fucking note_.

(Because _really_ LexCorp’s Medical Supply line was absolute _shit_ , so a self-sustaining medical pod for emergency transports was really just the way to _go_ for the Armed Forces—considering they’d beaten out several other big names for the contract was enough to prove he _might_ just be all right for this job other than, you know, keeping it out of the hands of bad guys.)

Through the back-and-forth about the company, he’d kept his opinions to himself, waiting for something to catch him up; something like “ _that’s amazing. I’ll know more about it when I’m getting back into the swing of things.”_ Or _“Once I’m back in the saddle, we’ll keep that project going.”_ Or, “ _You’ve done some amazing things, Tim, thanks. I’ll take it from here._ ”

He gets _nada_. Absolute _fuck all_.

Sitting on his left with Bruce across from them, Tam had nudged his knee, her way of telling him to _please say something or I’m burying you in paperwork **hell**_ , but honestly? He’s pretty much at a loss.

Making non-committal noises around a fresh cup of coffee is really all he’s _got_ at this point.

He shows Tam to the door leaning in slightly out of the doorframe to assure her in a low voice he’d already checked the Prada bag and it seems clean enough.

She sighs at him ( _again_ ) and makes the usual demands, “Eat something. _Sleep_ for God’s sake. I’ll…see you at work, _boss_.”

He feels his face pull with the automatic smile (because it’s _Tam_ ) and has another moment of regret when they couldn’t make it _work_ —the two of them would have been good together. Too bad for things that had never-been ( _too many, he’s lost too damn many to make that leap again_ ).

Coming back to the table is the hardest part of his day, knowing Bruce is probably watching him for all possible _ticks_ , is probably staring at his dead eyes with that shitty self-recrimination happening in the background, that the Dark Knight can _find him_ now (and _fuck_ , he doesn’t want to have to move his things to a new safe house. _Dammit, he likes it here_ ).

And once they’re alone, he gets the _first_ one in, “tagging Tam was shitty, you know.”

A shift of movement, a nod while a heavy sigh probably lifts Bruce’s shoulders and chest, and he can remember the moments when the Bat needed to be called back, reigned _in_ so the man behind the cowl didn’t _drop_ from exhaustion and injuries, from the sheer _weight_ of things he’d taken on his shoulders to bare. The noises, even without the visuals, are so damn _familiar_ , a basis for the layer of _Robin_ instincts that are honestly a part of his chemical make-up at this point. His instincts to pull B back from the edge of the abyss when the Dark Knight was taking him farther than any human being (ever _Bruce Wayne_ ) could handle…and stay _sane_.

He hadn’t been fucking _kidding_ when he told B “Batman needs a Robin” all those years ago.

“I know.”

“There some kind of unstated _rule_ we have about not treating other Bats like—” _criminals_ but _oh yeah, forgot for a second, didn’t you?_

His mouth shuts with a sharp _clack_ of his teeth coming together before the sentence gets out (and yes, Bruce _caught it_ ).

“If you stayed anywhere _near_ the radar, or had _at least_ picked up the phone, I would have left Tam alone, I swear.” Bruce fills in smoothly, filing away the aborted statement.

“Emails have been _fine_ up until now, you know.”

And just like the usual, B has something to keep him on his toes. “Just _emails_ have **never** been _fine_ , Tim.”

So…maybe the undercurrent of _it would be nice to see you back in Gotham once and a while, you know, when you have **time** and shit_ might not have all been lip service after all ( _but he already **has** a Robin, right?_ )

Instead of voicing it, giving old hurts a _space_ in reality, he goes with the automatic defense, “the accident didn’t make me an invalid, B. I’ve still been _vigilantie-ing_ it _up_ , blind or not.” The hard edge to his tone implies _no one else picked up on it so I must be doing **something** right_.

Another shift, a shrug, and _just like Batman_ , he diverts to something completely fucking _unexpected_ , “I never stopped keeping track of you, you know.”

Is…not what he expected to hear, just like with the CEO _thing_.

In true Bat form, B starts rattling off longitude and latitude, one set, two sets, three sets, four sets (and _fuck_ , apparently he _had_ been keeping track. The realization is jarring, a bucket of cold water over some of his previous notions of _not a Bat anymore_ ).

“Those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head.”

“I…”

“The point of this is the same one I gave you at the Manor.” Bruce tries to say it softly, take the hard punch out of his words. “You’re one of my Robins. You always _will be_. That’s what happens when you agree to take up the mask.”

He draws himself up a little because the implications (the _I’ll have your back, all you need to do is call and I’ll come_ ). And just like he was still that teenager in the tunic, Tim feels the heat in his chest, the undeniable feel of _comfort, safety_ B has always brought forth in him. Even when they worked their own cases, were continents away, he knew, had _believed_ , B would come running, B would still _need_ him—

His face turns away, scarred fingers tapping lightly against his coffee cup, an automatic response (and he doesn’t even _realize_ he’s tapping out _R-O-B-I-N_ in Morse code) to keep motion while his brain works.

“I appreciate it,” is finally what he can give back, soft and firm. “It’s…it hasn’t been… _easy_. Acclimating, I mean, to this,” and a general wave at his face. “But, I’m… _better_ now. Better than I was. It’s—” and he almost, _almost_ falls back on his usual diversion, his absolutely _bullshit_ when he’s got nothing _left_.

It feels out of place here, in the space of his sanctuary, the place he had to make useable without the Manor, the Cave, Titans Tower to fall back on— it feels out of place because Bruce…still doesn’t pull any punches.

The hand, _that hand_ , the one that’s caught him countless times over the years, pulled him _back_ in so fucking many ways—from over the edge of buildings, from his own recriminations, his own _failures_ , from blood loss and sleep dep, from working himself into a coma, from—

That hand can still wrap around his wrist with room to _spare_ , a thumb rubbing easy circles over his pulse, a _reminder_.

When he swallows, his throat is thick again, his eyes heating up just a little, just enough for him to chuff a laugh, a half-hoarse, rusty sound.

If there’s one thing the Batman and the _real_ Bruce have in common? They don’t bullshit the good guys about the _important_ things. If B came here to say it, went through the trouble of _finding_ the Tim’s rabbit hole, he _meant_ every damn word.

The litany of things he might have said fades down with the realization, and Tim raises his eyes, tries to make sure he’s looking at Bruce when the genuine half-smile is almost a wince.

“Do you…do you want to come downstairs and see the set-up?” (And _no_ , his voice doesn’t break a little, his chest doesn’t lurch with the familiarity of it all.)

But he can _hear it_ in Bruce’s tone, stark _relief_. “Yes actually, I do. Very much so, Tim.”

**

And outside, Gotham City _breathes_ as day gives way to night; the Birds of Prey step out, taking their time to _work_. Nightwing and Robin fill in the gaps, moving like they’ve fought together for decades.

Once N splits up with him, plans to meet back at the Mylar Building at two-thirty, Robin makes an impressive leap, launching himself through the sky.

He ends up in the Narrows, jumping around the old theatre where O used to make herself _comfortable_. He grapples up to the Queen  & Sons headquarters, the tallest building in this part of the city, and slides between the feet of his favorite gargoyle. He idly listens to the back and forth between O and N, O and Batgirl, Black Canary and the thug she’s beating the shit out of, Black Bat and O, all the sounds of _family_.

(Speaking of which)

All-in-all, he does not have to wait very _long_ for his next appointment of the night.

Anyone else not in the cape and cowls would have missed the soft boots striding across the roof, but Robin has been coming here the last few months, attempting to make _something_ in their world right again—to give something _back_.

And perhaps because he is no longer under the delusions of the League, perhaps because he is getting older, perhaps because he is _Robin_ and the symbol of his chest means so much _more_ than it meant when he first desired it, perhaps because now he better understands making the right choices for the right reasons, he has continued to attempt these interactions.

The taller vigilante ducks under the wing of the gargoyle, sitting on the ledge of the building rather than back under the statue. A careless toss of the greasy paper bag lands the offering right in Robin’s lap, and the smell is not…necessarily terrible.

A bottle of his preferred Vitamin Water is tossed at him as well, and he has it open, drinking it down while his eyes slide to the side behind the whiteouts. The soft noises, metal on metal, are indeed a testament to how _far_ they have come in the last few weeks.

The red helmet is left on the roof between them and a small flame flickers behind a gloved hand, lighting a casual cigarette while Robin hands over the chicken burrito and takes the veggie one for himself.

“I call this meeting of the Dead Robins Club ta order,” the Red Hood smirks at him through the shadows, lenses up on his domino so his eyes are just as jade as the waters of the Pit, “all right Demon. Gimmie the skinny, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to drop a comment :D


	6. 6: Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World's Greatest Detective takes a minute to breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Superbats element I was talking about with Titans >.< Ah, slightly NSFW so be advised

6:

At times, the hardest nights turn out to be the best.

Standing in the showers down in the Cave, long after he’d sent Damian and Dick upstairs to pass out after the night’s patrol, B breathes in shallowly while hot water pounds his injuries, his attempt to ease the tense, sore muscles, allow himself some time to think outside the realm of the Bat. It’s here when the cowl finally comes off for the night.

Nightwing had taken the initiative to hunt down former members of the Black Aces, the new section of Gotham’s mobster underground; he started looking for details of their operations, connections, products, and heavy hitters. At some point, the first former Robin had ditched the suit and went in undercover as Freddie DeNardo, a low-life criminal and “associate” of one Matches Malone.

While B and Robin had taken time putting out the many proverbial fires in Gotham, keeping up with the police scanner as well as O’s directions to current cases, Dick had managed to talk to a “recruiter” about possibly joining up. In a few days, he would go back to the Narrows for an _interview_.

Apparently while the Bats had been busy, Red Robin came out of his Perch to take to the night as well.

O sent him footage of Red swinging, fighting, and apparently investigating something down by the lower docks; the footage is sketchy, not nearly enough to give him an idea what Red might have been after, but it still makes him nostalgic for the times when the two of them could investigate together, put theories on the table, be _partners_.

Of course, Tim hadn’t mentioned any cases he’s actively working in Gotham earlier in the day when B had decided to finally take a silent stand and show up at the penthouse apartment.

Just by going, B pushed further than he had before and took a more proactive step into what’s now Tim’s world. Up until the incident with Ra’s, he was content to infiltrate WE, Tim’s security system, and Tam Fox’s office and make a general nuisance of himself in hopes _one_ of the infiltrations would be enough for Tim to return his phone calls—hell, B would have even taken a roughly-worded email with simply _fuck-off_.  He’d assumed Tam might ask Tim for some help dealing with Brucie and give him the vehicle he needed to explain how he knew _where_ Tim’s nest is and even _better_ , a reason to be at it in the middle of the day.  He’d been looking for an opening, some way, some _excuse_ for a face-to-face that didn’t involve the criminal underworld.

Luckily, he had a strike of inspiration when Lucius sent him specs from an interesting device from R&D.

Of _course_.

The best way to get directly to Tim?

 _Tam Fox_.

The first two days of getting right on Miss Fox’s nerves had really been more for his personal enjoyment than just waiting for the opportunity to talk to his son again (Batman only gets so many opportunities to have fun like this). The brilliant idea didn’t present itself until Day 4 when Tam had probably had about as much Brucie Wayne as any one person could _stand_ on a given day: with Tam as the VP, B could leave the company right in Tim’s capable hands and _that_ explanation could give him enough reasons to seek out his adopted son outside the masks (not to mention Tim would probably be a better CEO than he could manage to pull off being his idiot alter ego). Plan made, B let Dick and Damian in on what he intended, watching Dick’s eyes twinkle when the trap starts to look fool proof. The next morning, he had the appropriately signed paperwork in Miss Fox’s hands without so much as batting an eye.

Imagine his surprise when she merely tilted her gaze up to assess him, “Mr. Wayne, not to offend, but are you out of your _ever-loving mind?_ ”

As either persona, he’s used to hearing such things out of his sons and his JLA teammates—not usually out of people at _his company_.

“Tim Drake has no previous work experience, including being Chief Executive Officer of a multi- _billion_ dollar company. He’s eighteen Mr. Wayne. _Eighteen_. The Board only tolerated him this long because he hasn’t made any real changes to administration and—”

He put up a hand to stop what would probably be a tirade of _epic_ proportions, “he’s nineteen, and I’ll talk to the Board personally, Miss Fox. They’re going to be just fine with Tim in charge.” And the look on her face was enough to make the Brucie Wayne persona go right out the window as he eased himself down in the chair across from her desk and let his real face breathe.

“Honestly, Tam. He’s a vigilante I’ve trained since he was twelve years old. This is going to be a cake walk for him—blind or not.”

He found himself smiling when her mouth fell open, eyes widened in surprise.

“Mr. Wayne…I mean, I—yes, _yes_ , I know he was,” her hands started coming out to wave in small circles, “you know, _Robin_. Like, I _know_. That he was Robin. He, uh, kind of had to tell me? When we were with those _scary guys_ I’m not supposed to _talk about_ in public places? And he’s Red Robin now, so I get the—the _crime fighting_ thing.”

“Wait,” and B holds up a hand, his tone dark because _what now?_

Tam completely stops, eyes widened even _more_ when the vestiges of the Bat are in his tone. Her throat moves in an obvious swallow.

B leans over the desk, putting them closer, “Are you telling me that _you_ were there with him? When he was with _the League of Assassins?_ ” Because _yes_ , he knew _where_ Tim was but not that Tam was _with him in the heart of the world’s deadliest killers_.

What changed his opinion (one based off a much younger version of this woman), was the way Miss Fox drew herself up, spine straight, and narrowed her eyes. (He gave himself immediate points for making her Tim’s second-in-command).

“You bet your _ass_ I was. He’d just been—” and one hand went up, made a wiping motion over her eyes, and a muscle ticked in B’s jaw. Tam Fox was with Tim after the initial blinding—Good _Lord_.

“He…he was—” and her voice got softer, a hitch right there for him to read into.

B had taken a deep breath, projecting _calm_ , and reached across her well-used planner to catch one shaky hand in both of his (she doesn’t talk with her hands when emotionally compromised, noted), “It’s all right, Tam, you can tell me whatever you’re comfortable talking about. Tim…Tim was my partner, _is_ my friend. He was my _Robin_ and I still think of him as my son. Not just Jack Drake’s, but mine too. So, anything you can give me that will help me help _him_ would be…greatly appreciated.”

And Miss Fox had blinked at him, looking vaguely shell-shocked, then turned to gaze out the window of her office, over Gotham’s skyline. In her profile, B saw someone that could assess, prepare, and keep moving. Someone that would _fight_ if utterly necessary.

“I’m not…well, okay so I don’t _know_ all the details, and _do you know what,_ Mr. Wayne, I’m not even going to—”

“Bruce—” he interrupts smoothly.

Her mouth makes a little moue, but she continues, “ _Bruce_. I’m not even going to tell you everything. You,” and he gets a finger close to his nose, “are going to have to _work_ for it. Tim _deserves_ the effort because it’s _damn_ time someone started caring, you know,” and those hands wave again, “about what he’s trying to _do_ out there.”

“You’re right, Tam,” B had agreed softly with the dark edge to his tone, the _real_ Bruce Wayne (and Tam _sees_ it, sees a hint of the concerned parent—the same look she occasionally gets from Dad since she and Tim came back from Iraq). “You’re absolutely right.”

While she laid out a sketchy list of the main events (each one matching up with those from his own research), B tracked the ticks and slips as the story progressed, observed any indication of trauma from the experience. And as much as he hated it, to include a civilian in this life, _their Mission_ , he had to admit Tam’s knack for taking the impossible in stride is nothing short of miraculous considering who they are and what they _do_ , why WE’s R&D is the biggest money pit in the company. For his peace of mind (and considering the kind of company she’s keeping with Tim—who apparently baits megalomaniacal immortals in his new persona), he slipped her purse out from under her desk while she was none the wiser.

**

He breathes in as the pelting hot water finally eases sore muscles.

The water tank here in the Cave is just as massive as the one for the Manor, an upgrade the last time the place got leveled to the ground. With the boys and Alfred in for the night, he’s got time to let himself just stand and think before the usual post-patrol routine: update notes on the Batcomputer, do a series of cool-down exercises, treat any missed injuries, make a last check on everyone, then maybe sleep if there wasn’t data to analyze from any one of his pending cases.

What he keeps focusing on, however, is Tim’s satisfied expression earlier in the week when B was up to his elbows in engine grease, looking into the Blackbird’s guts and admitting the system set-up is wired better than the Batmobile and just _dammit_ , why hadn’t he thought of doing it this way? He could have custom-made a wiring harness just like this one.

Honestly, putting the tracking device on Tam at Wayne Enterprises, however, hadn’t been part of the initial plan so much as he’d done it as a precaution. The benefit, of course, was finding Tim’s Perch with less fuss than if he’d been _actively looking_ (if he’d wanted to know _that much_ , he could have just triangulated based on traffic cameras and isolating Tim’s network—you know, _World’s Greatest Detective_ ).

Even a few days later, he’s still processing, integrating it with what he had already known. Added to the list of accomplishments under the first days of Red Robin (not Jason’s Red Robin… _that_ is not a time he likes to remember, but if they’re ever comfortable enough with each other, then B has every intention of telling Tim just how much he’s done with the name, how no one else could have turned the reputation around, made a _hero_ out of a villain).

Tamara was there when Tim went through the first few weeks of blindness and the connection between them was obviously stronger for those trials—meaning, he would keep an eye on her (especially as the new VP, a position that comes with no _lack_ of trouble she could get into). And as B theorizes, for Tam’s sake, Tim would have no choice but to let him in just slightly, may even _allow_ the Bat to back-up Red Robin once and a while. And maybe, _maybe_ , he could prove how much he missed his younger counterpart, how the Cave always seemed a little less _home_ without the young boy that wove himself into the fabric of the Batman’s mission, added himself to the framework of B’s _life_.

He’s missed Tim; of course, he didn’t let it detract from his attentions to Damian and Dick, but he felt the lack of presence as strongly as he did with Jason—the Jason before _and_ after the Pit.

And he is fully aware (now) how long it had been since Tim had that kind of safety net, but it would ultimately be in the Bat’s favor in trying to work his former Robin _back_ (as far as Tim would come, as a partner, a friend, a former protégé, a colleague).

Which is the ultimate goal. A mission within _the_ Mission.

“Long night?”

His innate senses, honed during the years he’d worn the cowl, had picked up on the slight sound of breathing before the words had washed over him, and B opens his eyes, raises his head up enough to look through the pounding water at Kal standing by the shower stall, outlined against the curtain.

He huffs out a sigh, wondering briefly if Damian or Alfred called him this time. Maybe he’d just been listening in. With Superman, who really _knew_?

“Long couple of nights.” He admits wearily. “You?”

Kal hums and then there’s the whirl of _fast_ movements so when he steps into the shower, right behind B’s hunched figure, he’s already out of the suit, cape, and boots. “A few natural disasters. A big boat of pirates in the Atlantic. Um, prep for a diplomatic mission to that weird planet next week—”

“The Barillions,” B fills in just before the jaw-cracking yawn takes over.

“That’s them,” Kal replies happily, using his x-ray vision shamelessly to look for pulled muscles, bruises, broken _anything_ , and other injuries. He doesn’t move even when B shifts to give him plenty of room under the spray of water, but instead eases his big hands around those hips to pull his oldest partner and friend right back into place for the full blast on the trouble spots along his lower back. His grip moves up to help work into those sore muscles, tisking gently around painful-looking bruises and contusions.

He’s had enough experience to know where the worst pains would be and is completely _shameless_ in using all his super-powers to subdue B long enough to rub them out when his vigilante significant other is supposedly too _busy_.

“Make sure you don’t confuse _It’s a pleasure to meet you_ with _soul-sucking harpy bastards_. Ironically, they sound the same. Ugh,” and Kal’s hands knead into that spot on his lower back and B sighs, his body beginning to further relax in degrees. It’s already apparent his post-patrol schedule is going to be put off for the night (besides, he hasn’t seen Kal outside the costume in a few _weeks_ ).

Kal’s laugh, full of mirth and light, makes him feel better just on principle.

“Noted. You’re worrying for nothing, though. I’m not going to embarrass the Justice League, Bruce. I promise.”

B chuffs a laugh, finally starting to straighten up, “I think the spit-curl does it for you, Kal.” He finally turns in the spray to face his partner with a tired smirk and moves a hand up to palm the nape of Kal’s neck, thumb making circles automatically.

Blue eyes, lighter than his own, crinkle with humor since _this discussion is familiar_. “Hey, who knew a pair of glasses and two seconds with a curling iron could hide Superman under mild-mannered Clark Kent?”

“I’m aware your secret weapon is Aqua-Net.”

And since they’re _here_ , away from the duties and responsibilities, here where the suits are gone, where discussion of criminals and deadly weapons can stay _outside_ the curtain, where worries of the future can be deferred, Bruce lists into Kal when the hands put gentle enough pressure to be a _suggestion_. One arm drapes over the alien’s bare shoulder so B can press the side of his face into Kal’s warm neck and draw the scent in, making gooseflesh appear (and _yes_ , even Kal had to admit his observation skills are _legendary_ ) even with the hot water hitting them both.

Smiling (since he doesn’t get _this_ as often as he would like, to have the part of Bruce that let himself let _go_ of the masks for the night, to be pliant and so unbearably, endearingly _human_ ), Kal winds his arms around the obviously over-worked, exhausted vigilante and holds on for long, achingly tender moments.

He may have a brief flash of something similar that happened back when he’d returned from the dead and Bruce had taken him aside when all the others had finally left following a painfully emotional reunion. He’d been wrung out, depleted, his immense strength all but will at that point, and the eyes behind the cowl could see _all of it_.

Diana gave the silent shadow a _look_ before she winked and was pointedly the last to leave (to make damn well _sure_ those two got privacy before Batman started on one of his _contingencies_ —anything ranging from minor natural disasters to invasions of ninjas at the Hall of Justice while those two were curiously _indisposed_ and comms “malfunctioning”).

Still in _Batman_ , B had gripped one of his wrists, lead him through the corridor of quiet rooms in the Watchtower, and pulled him into the private suite without a word. The suits had come off while the shower warmed, felt fantastic on his cold skin while Bruce more-or-less held him up on his feet, washed him carefully with calloused hands and rinsed him before leading him out to sit on the sink for towels to dry his still-sensitive skin. B’s strength was the only thing that got him under the covers, warmed him, let him relax enough to close his eyes. When he opened them again, his face was still smushed against Bruce’s collar bone and those arms were gripping him like he’d _never_ _let go_.

From then on, they meshed just like this. They worked together, respected the names, the experiences, the strengths; they’d bitched at each other and argued, strategized when necessary, and butted in to each other’s territories. Most importantly, they made _time_ between their hectic schedules to have a small space without _all_ of it.

So tonight, Kal has no problems easing B out of the shower and to a bench outside the shower/changing room in the Cave; he rubs using the soft towel and firm touch like B usually appreciates and slides the fluffy robe over his arms and up his shoulders. A tap to the uniform shrinks it to the insignia he slides in the pocket of Bruce’s robe. He’s careful when he wraps his partner up in both arms, catching the smile before B’s nose is tucked into his neck and they become weightless. Kal takes them through the Cave, frees one hand long enough to tap his code in the side panel to shut down the lights and non-essential processes for the night before floating up into the Manor proper and through the silent darkness. He has no problem being the one to turn down the sheets and slide under them, being the heat source next to Bruce’s slightly shivering body ( _not surprising; the life of a vigilante of Batman’s caliber comes with perpetual blood loss_ ), holding all that strength _tight_ with both arms.

Kal already knows an extra serving of breakfast and coffee will appear on the tray Alfred will leave outside the door (even if he has _no idea_ how the butler just _knows_ ), and over it, they’ll talk about whatever is driving Bruce to his extents this time. Well, since Dick had already given him a little _hint_ when he’d called last night, Kal could read between the lines.

Anytime it’s one of the Robins, Bruce has a bad tendency to go to _extremes_.

Until then, the World’s Greatest Detective is lying mostly on top of him, muscles loose for a change, and already mostly out. There’s no _Bat-stillness_ or assessing light in his eyes, there’s only something soft and fond when B rises up just enough to do one of Kal’s favorite things: nuzzle against his nose before pressing their mouth together.

B is lifted only slightly when Kal sighs into it, perfectly satisfied to press his partner back down and rake gently rake nails over the fine hairs at the base of his neck, earning a low growl of content.

And Kal doesn’t need to say anything, not with how _long_ they’ve known each other, how _close_ they’ve been all this time; all he needs to do is make sure B doesn’t lay on his injuries and maybe, _maybe_ manages to get a few hours of sleep.

**

A noise is drawn from his throat even before he fully comes to awareness.

And, well, since B is technically _the night_ , it’s no surprise to find him, a blanketed lump, where he can’t really be _seen_ , but his presence is definitely _felt_ (literally, so, _so_ literally, and _Rao, does that feel good_ —)

He throws back his head against the thick pillows on Bruce’s bed, coming out of sleep to the _wonderful_ racing up his spine at each draw deeper inside _warm_ and _wet_ , each muffled noise, of fingers playing with his sac and moving further to the opening of his body, making Kal just as pliant as B wants him to be.

The familiar fingers are slick when they breach him, start out slow and easy, working him slowly as he comes out of the sleep haze and sinks into pleasure, warm and building in his lower abdomen.

He moans, gasps, and shudders at the expert mouth and hands working him.

“Bruuuce,” but he throws back his head when the suction becomes just this side of _too much_ , “I want—! _Bruce_ , let me—”

But the touch to his _spot_ makes his hips jerk, his heart beat harder, the pleasure build so much _tighter_. “Oh, _oh shit,_ Bruce!” and _dammit_ if he doesn’t start rambling on in Kryptonian when Bruce takes him even _deeper_ and starts to _hum_.

His thighs move under Bruce’s hands, unable to keep still, but the World’s Greatest Detective seems to anticipate _everything_ and moves with him, takes him, gives part of himself _back_ , and drinks him down when he finally, _finally_ stops with the teasing and _works for it_.

Kal comes with a helpless yell, one hand gripping the back of Bruce’s neck.

His sheets are ripped to shreds (and he’s going to get _that look_ from Alfred. Again.) by the time B starts crawling his way up the warm, heaving body, one he pauses long enough to press his mouth against (since he definitely has favorite spots) before nosing up from under the blankets to Kal’s red face and dazed eyes. It’s one of his very favorite sights (well, aside from any number of the Rogue Gallery on their merry damn way back to Arkham or everyone on any number of his _teams_ alive and well after a good fight).

B eases himself down to lay the length of Kal’s body, feet dangling a little and folds his arms over the still heaving chest to prop his chin. He can’t help the smirk, not that he _expects_ to be anything other than a smug bastard right now.

“Good morning,” and _yes_ his growl is a combination of the blow job and early morning grit, but the twitch against his hip means it really doesn’t even _matter_ to Kal.

“That’s so _unfair_ ,” the alien groans, wrapping his arms around his significant other, pulling B up further along his body, dragging skin against skin, and _oh Rao…Bruce is still so **hard**_ from sucking him off and hadn’t _taken care of himself yet_.

Kal’s heart leaps in his chest because _allow me to help you with that_ is too much to say when he’s already mapping the inside of Bruce’s mouth with his tongue and floating just slightly, softly a few inches above the bed. B gasps in his mouth and kicks the covers off—

“Father.” Comes Damian’s muffled voice through the door, and both men _freeze_.

Bruce groans softly, thumps his forehead on Kal’s shoulder while the alien debates using super speed to _hide_ (but hiding from Robin, any _one_ of them was usually a lesson in futility).

Raising his head, B looks toward the door, “I need another hour, Damian.”

A pause. An _obvious_ pause. “Of course. I am leaving your breakfast by the door.”

The smallest smile crosses Bruce’s face as Kal licks into his neck, bites on a certain _spot_ gently. He manages not to groan out loud, but only just. “Thank-you, son.”

“I shall see you this afternoon. Kent, do not keep him _all day_.”

And _yes_ , he’s biting down on his lower lip _hard_ to keep from laughing when Kal’s hands stop moving down his back on the way to his ass.

“I got it,” the alien calls back, “thanks, Dami.”

The normal “ _tt,_ ” is audible, even without super hearing, and Kal doesn’t bother breathing out until he hears the nearly silent steps retreating down the hallway. Once his muscles relax, B buries his face in Kal’s throat and his chest starts trembling a little.

“That kid is a menace,” Kal grumbles while B is still shaking with unrepentant laughter.

“All of them are. There’s a reason for that,” he calms down when his significant other flips them abruptly and drops down to bracket him with all fours.

Kal huffs against his jugular and gropes through the sheets for wherever the lube has been stashed; the other holds on so he can slide their hips together and start working a rhythm.

He mouths at Bruce’s neck, earning soft, low noises, allows those hands to grip him, to _hold on_ and all of it, all of Bruce wrapped around him makes his whole body shudder, get tight, and damn if it isn’t so overwhelming sometimes because his friend, his partner with him like this, the feel of him, the taste, the smell of Kevlar and blood, of need and the night pressed against him, moving with him, taking him where he needed to be.

Sometimes it’s frighteningly encompassing, but he can’t imagine his life without it.

**

Later, Kal is sitting up against the headboard with Bruce between his legs while they shared breakfast and read the paper at the same time (and B calls him a dork because he’s completely on board with this morning routine). The comfortable progression is B handling the paper while Kal feeds them whatever deliciousness Alfred has whipped up and idly scans the surrounding area for the usual distress calls (and Kal already _knows_ B has copies of the Daily Planet delivered, knows B reads all his stories eventually—even if it has to wait until after patrol). This is comfortable enough they have it down to a science—moving slightly to accommodate the other, holding the Agricultural section for longer than a skim, thumb rubbing circles on a hip, moving to fit in just the right niches of muscle and bone.

When B pauses at the Business section, Kal catches the story and realizes he doesn’t have to breach the subject himself. It’s right there with an older picture of Tim in a suit and tie with a short blurb about the CEO of Wayne Enterprises holding a meeting with the Board of Directors in the Gotham office this week.

Well, Kal is not one to pass up a good opening. With one arm tightening around his significant other’s midsection, he affectionately hold up B’s mug of coffee with the other and waits. Eyes not moving from the story, Bruce turns his head just enough to drink without spilling a drop.

“Can I ask how it’s going with him? I tried to give you some time for him so you wouldn’t be…distracted.”

And it’s a telling thing when instead of the usual _Batstillness_ when B doesn’t want to answer the hard questions, the vigilante lowers the newspaper and looks at his other half over a shoulder, allowing his turmoil to be evident.

“Oh, Bruce—” and because he’s Superman and he can do these things—it’s a blink of time that has B facing him with their legs thrown over one another.

Kal presses their foreheads together, keeping his expression neutral and open. “All right. What happened?”

B’s eyes shift, become darker, his _other_ side even without the cowl, “the League can’t know yet. Not until he decides how he’s going to proceed from here.”

“I promise,” and Kal lifts one of those massive ( _fragile_ ) hands to back of his own neck. Softer, he tries again, “Bruce, babe. What happened to him?”

The details, the facts come out in his usual, no-nonsense demeanor (the Detective and his extensive research); he falters when his own conclusions draw all the pieces together (the Father, gone when one of his sons got hurt, almost died) and lays out the story.

Because he can (and has before), Kal presses his cheek against the side of Bruce’s head, accepts the tight hold around his back, tries to soothe the overflowing anger and helplessness, the Batman that’s too late to jump into the fight and save the day. (And as much as he hates it, how everything happened, the price Tim had to pay, he can’t help but feel a modicum of relief that at least Tim didn’t die because no one wanted to face down Bruce if he had to bury another son. The last time almost killed them both and leveled an entire abandoned town in the Midwest. Diana was appropriately pissed and sympathetic.)

Luckily, it’s Saturday. Clark Kent has the next three days off (thanks, Lo, owe you one), Bruce Wayne doesn’t have any rich-guy shindigs to attend, and Damian doesn’t have school. He’s already planning a perfect day of hanging out with them in the Cave, letting Damian spar with him while Bruce enters his notes from last night, sitting on his workbench to talk about the Barillions while maintenance to cars or bikes or computers or suits are done, helping Alfred with the dishes (because if he _didn’t_ , Ma would fly from Kansas just to slap him—and yes, she hits hard and no, it’s not fair), lecturing Dick against his usual antics (while subtly slipping him a low five), and probably rounding out the family day with a movie before he takes B upstairs before patrol and gives him just the kind of distraction he obviously needs.

Maybe, if things pan out the way he thinks they probably will, he might just catch a glimpse of Red Robin as he’s headed back to Metropolis to get his mail before heading up to the Watchtower for monitoring duty. And _if_ he just happens to see said vigilante, it would of course be prudent of him to contact a certain member of the Titans. No, it would be his _duty_ to let them know their former leader and still comrade-in-arms has finally surfaced. Of course, Superman would do something like that (not that it’ll be good for everyone in the long run or anything, but it _will_ ).

For the time being, he subtly rubs circles on Bruce’s back and provides all the comfort he can, but he knows exactly what buttons to push and what things he needs to say for the look in Bruce’s eye to change, become calculating, for him to start forming _plans_. 

And when Bruce finally seems to have the attack ready, he tilts his forehead up and smirks just before he palms Kal’s neck. One brow arches in question or in challenge, and he’s already a goner, tilting his head to meet B halfway into a breathless, perfect kiss. 

Well, at least he remembers to get the breakfast tray off the bed this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Superbats so feel free to tell me how it went? And as always, thanks for reading.


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